


She Was Never Really Afraid of You

by Cherry_Carter



Category: Marvel, Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Adult Content, Drama & Romance, Everyone Loves Bucky, F/M, First Dates, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Heavy on longing, Light on action, Mentions of Steve Rogers - Freeform, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-The Falcon and the Winter Soldier (TV), Romance, Sam shows up too, writing this for my own entertainment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:35:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 60,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26118115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cherry_Carter/pseuds/Cherry_Carter
Summary: Story begins shortly after Captain America: Winter Soldier.  Bucky is trying to find Steve and targets someone Steve cares about.  Finds himself unexpectedly charmed by her, although in the end his damaged mind threatens her life and he goes back on the run.Jump ahead several years...Bulk of story takes place after the events in Endgame.  Bucky is doing his best to make amends and start fresh.  He visits Steve's old flame in an attempt to apologize for the damage he'd caused the last time he saw her.  She convinces him to stay for dinner, and he begins to wonder if a normal life could be in the cards for him after all.Adult stuff starts at Chapter 13, if that’s what you’re here for.If you prefer to skip past the flashback, begin at Chapter 4.  (A note, the events in Chapters 1-3 are occasionally referenced later.)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Original Female Character(s), James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 43





	1. Safe House

October, 2014

As I came into the room a hand went across my mouth. It smelled like metal and gasoline. Another tightened around my throat. Hard.

“Where’s Steve Rogers?” The threat was implied. 

He took his hand away from my mouth but kept the hand on my throat. 

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t lie.” 

I felt hot breath on my neck. The voice was soft, male, but I didn’t recognize it.

“I’m not. I never know where he goes for work. He comes here sometimes when he’s in town.” 

I was babbling, but my brain wasn’t working properly. It had been an abrupt shift from putting groceries away to being strangled in my bedroom.  
There was a pause from my mysterious attacker, as though he hadn’t considered this possibility. I wasn’t sure, but it seemed that his hands were loosening.

“Get him a message. Tell him to come here.”

“I can text him, but I can’t guarantee when he’ll show up.”

Apparently this was good enough, or the intruder decided if I was any kind of threat I’d have already tried to fight my way free. He let me go and pushed me forward against the bed. I turned quickly, wanting to see the man who’d held me.

He was about six feet tall, and something about him reminded me of Steve. But he was dark where Steve was light. His dark brown hair fell in his face. Dark stubble covered his chin. His eyes were… I don’t know. Something about him seemed broken. 

“Who are you?” I asked, not expecting an answer. “Why are you looking for Steve?”

“Get him here,” he said finally. 

I took my phone out of my purse, which had landed on the floor when he’d grabbed me. I typed a text to Steve that just said, “Come please.”

“Do you want to see it?” I asked. Again, no answer. I hit “SEND.”

I looked back at him, trying to figure out who he might be. As though I had any way of knowing all the characters Steve must come into contact with doing his job. He didn’t seem concerned that I’d seen his face. In the movies that always meant he intended to kill me, but he didn’t seem interested in hurting me. I had my phone in my hand, I could have called for help. I probably should have. But I was curious, and my brain still wasn’t working properly.

“It’s possible he might not be here for days. He could be halfway across the world right now.”

He didn’t answer. The strong silent type, I guess. I continued to look at him, figuring if I survived this, I might need to describe him in detail later. His clothes were dark, black tee-shirt, dark jacket and jeans. They were worn and looked as though they hadn’t seen a washer in weeks. 

He had a broad forehead and a square jaw, but the way he was clenching his teeth right now reminded me of a sullen child. I should probably have been terrified but there was something about him that seemed familiar. Like Steve in the parking lot that first day. I knew I’d never met him before, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I knew who he was.  


I looked into his eyes again. He just stared back at me. Behind all that hair, they were dark blue. With a little grey.

“Bucky?” I asked, hesitantly. 

Something unreadable flashed across those eyes, and then he turned and stalked out of the room. Evidently, he planned to walk right out the front door.

“Wait,” I called. He paused, his hand on the knob. “Where are you going?”

No answer.

“Why don’t you stay here?” 

He probably thought that was as ridiculous as I did, but he didn’t make a move to leave. 

“It’s safe. Nobody would think to look for you here.” He turned the doorknob.

“Are you afraid of me?” 

I meant it as a joke, but to my surprise he actually stopped. He took his hand off the knob and turned to look at me, saying nothing.

“You’ll want to be here when Steve gets back.” 

Nothing. 

“You can have the bed, I’ll sleep out here.” 

Still nothing. 

“Are you hungry? I was just going to make dinner.” 

He was still standing in front of the door, silent. I decided to push on.

“You don’t have any food allergies I should know about, do you? No? Okay then. Chili it is.”

I went into the kitchen and started laying out the ingredients, ignoring the fact that there was a mentally unstable trained assassin in my living room. I turned the music on. My favorite Pandora station was mostly 30’s and 40’s music. I figured it might make Bucky feel more at home, even if he wasn’t completely himself. 

I got the chili started and took a deep breath before exiting the kitchen, unsure of what I’d find in the living room. I found… nothing. He wasn’t there. For a minute I thought maybe he’d left after all.  


But no. He was examining my router in the spare bedroom. I didn’t have any extra bedroom furniture, so that room was just used for storage.

“Dinner will be ready in about ten minutes.” He didn’t look up, but I guess this was an improvement over his hand on my throat. I decided to keep trying. “Is there anything you need?” No reaction.

I took a few steps towards him, careful to keep my distance. 

“Look, I know you were threatening my life back there, but the fact is you’re Steve’s friend so I’m going to take care of you until he gets back.”

He looked up at that. 

“Take care of me?” His voice was rough, but there may have been a trace of amusement.

“Yes. However I can, if you’ll let me.” 

His expression was still unreadable. It was amazing, his face betrayed absolutely nothing about what he was thinking, and I was looking closely. 

“I’ll start with dinner. If you’re like Steve, then you’re going to need to eat something. After that we’ll see if we can get your clothes sorted out. Do you have a spare outfit in here that I could wash for you?” 

I took a few steps towards a backpack that must have been his. It had definitely seen better days, like everything he was wearing. 

It was crazy, one moment he was crouching on the floor, the next moment he had me in a vice grip. 

“Don’t touch that,” he growled.

“Okay,” I said, standing still, trying to be as non-threatening as possible.

After a minute he let me go. I retreated toward the doorway and threw an “I’m just going to check on the chili,” over my shoulder.

I didn’t think he really wanted to hurt me. If he had, I’d be dead by now. But I needed to figure out what his triggers were so I could stop giving him reasons to put me in a chokehold.

I knew a little, a very little, about what had happened to Bucky. But I knew enough to be protective of him, regardless of his behavior. The guy’s happiest days had been in Depression-era Brooklyn. After that he’d been captured and tortured by Hydra until Steve had rescued him. He’d had a few “good” years in the military, risking his life fighting alongside his buddy, until he’d fallen off a cliff, had his arm ripped off, and been captured and tortured again by Hydra. 

He was surgically given a metal arm, presumably without his consent. Then he was brainwashed into assassinating people, had his memory wiped, and was repeatedly frozen and defrosted like a pound of ground beef. I don’t know what that would do to a person. I don’t think anyone does, except him. But I’m willing to cut him some slack in the niceties department.

I set two places at the table and served up the chili and cornbread. Then I pulled out two chairs. I cautiously approached the guest room and found Bucky standing in the dim twilight, looking out the window at the few cars on the street. 

“Dinner is ready, if you’d like something to eat.” 

He turned to me but didn’t move. I headed back towards the table. By the time I’d reached it he was following me. I motioned to the two chairs. 

“I didn’t want you to think I’d done anything to the food. Please feel free to take whatever chair you’d like.” He watched me but didn’t make a move toward the table. I decided to just keep going.

“I’ve noticed you don’t seem to be in the mood for conversation, which is fine, but I thought we could listen to some music, if that’s all right.” 

I went to the record player and thumbed through the LP’s. I specifically wanted something instrumental. It would be weird to sit at the table across from this guy with Bing Crosby crooning love songs in the background. Benny Goodman emerged from the speakers and I turned back to the table, mildly surprised to find him standing behind one of the chairs.

When he saw me looking at him, he motioned for me to take the other chair. I smiled and did so.

“You must have had the same etiquette instructor as Steve. Never sit until the lady sits, huh?” 

I sat down in my chair, and he sat in his. Then, wordlessly, he took my plate in one hand and his in the other and slid them so that they changed places. I looked at him and could swear I saw just the ghost of a smile on his face. Without saying a word, I ladled up a spoonful of chili and took a bite. He looked back at me and followed suit.

Watching him eat was kind of fascinating, and because we ate without talking there wasn’t much else to do. He started gingerly, taking a few bites to see what it tasted like or maybe determining whether I’d actually put something in it. Then, once it seemed safe, he gulped down half the bowl. I remembered Steve telling me his metabolism burned a lot faster than an average person, and he had to eat more to keep it going. I guessed Bucky was the same.

Once he’d eaten half the bowl he slowed down and something remarkable happened. He looked up at me and seemed to really see me for the first time. As though someone else had been inhabiting his body until that point. He gazed at me for a minute, studying my face. 

“Thank you,” he said simply, and finished the rest of his chili in silence. 

**********

I’d given him my laptop computer and he was sitting with it at the table. After dinner I’d asked if he wanted to watch something on television or borrow a book, but he’d requested a computer and I was happy to provide it. I had no idea what time hitmen hit the sack, but I had to work tomorrow and it was time for bed. 

Judging by his reaction to my approach of his backpack it was likely that it contained something a little more precious than a change of clothes. I had a few things of Steve’s that he’d left at my place just in case he needed to crash there. I grabbed a tee-shirt and pair of track pants, figuring they’d be more comfortable to sleep in than what Bucky was wearing. 

He looked over at me as I approached and stood up when I got to the table. I handed him the clothes. 

“Steve left these here, they should fit you. If you want, I can put your other clothes in the wash. I was going to do some laundry anyway,” I lied. As much as I wanted to protect Bucky, I was not planning to put any of my clothes in there with the sad sacks he had on. Who knows what he’d gotten on them in his travels.

I started to turn around and head for my bedroom when he cleared his throat. 

“I’m not going to take your bed,” he said. Every time he spoke it was as though he hadn’t used his voice in a while, and it was a little rusty. 

“Are you sure? It’s not just hospitality, I thought you might not want to sleep in a room that opened to the street with a huge window.” I didn’t know much about being a fugitive, but I imagined that my bedroom might be a safer place for a man on the run. 

He appeared to consider this. Not just which room was safer, but the fact that I’d thought ahead about what would be safer for him. His face softened a little.

“It’s okay.” 

“All right. I’m going to change. I’ll be back in a while to get your clothes.”

“Don’t bother, I’m fine.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes.” It occurred to me that if he was the kind of person who needed to make a fast getaway, he might not want his only pants in the washing machine. 

“Then I’ll grab a set of Steve’s clothes for you, in case you want an extra.” I figured Steve wouldn’t mind. I pulled out a pair of jeans and a button-down shirt and set them on top of a pile of bedding and a pillow on the couch in the front room.

“Here you go. I’ll be in the bedroom if you need anything. I put an extra toothbrush in the bathroom on the sink, in case you need one.” I thought a minute and then added, “Mine is the pink one.” 

Through all this he was still standing at the table, as though he didn’t plan to resume his work until I was gone. I turned towards the bedroom but stopped when he said “Wait,” and turned back to face him. I waited a moment for him to speak. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts.

“It’s been a long time…” he started. Then shook his head a little and just said “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.”

**********

Hours later, lying awake in my bed, I thought about him out there. All alone, like he must always be. I realized with a start that it was possible, even likely, that he hadn’t touched another human being with anything other than violence in decades. 

I wanted to touch him. To comfort him. But I was afraid that any contact I initiated would be interpreted as a threat. It was like trying to tame a wild animal. A wild animal who knew my home address and wi-fi password. All I knew was that the longer he stayed here with me, the more I could help him trust me, the better he would be. 

**********

I awoke in the middle of the night and had to go to the bathroom. On my way there I glanced out into the living room and saw that the couch was empty. I wasn’t completely surprised, there had always been the possibility that Bucky would take off. But I had hoped to at least make him feel safe enough to spend one night in my house. I tiptoed through the dark living room and slowly opened the kitchen door. 

At first I didn’t see anything, but then my bare foot hit what must have been a pillow. I was heading for the door to the carport when a hand grabbed me from behind and spun me around.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” I joked, all I could come up with at two in the morning. 

His expression was unreadable in the dim light from the window. I couldn’t imagine what he must think, my wandering around in just a thin pink nightgown. Bucky had changed clothes after all but was wearing the tee-shirt and jeans rather than track pants. He had his hands clamped on my upper arms. They both felt warm, even the metal one. It was so strange to see it reflecting the light from outside. I knew he had it but hadn’t noticed it much before, he’d been wearing a jacket. 

When he didn’t say anything, I added “So you didn’t think the front room was safe either, huh?” No answer. “If you feel safer sleeping in here, that’s fine. But at least let me get you a sleeping bag.”

He finally let me go and took a step back. I retreated into the spare bedroom and grabbed my sleeping bag and pad. I returned and set them on the floor next to his pillow and what I now recognized as one of the blankets I’d left out.

“Try to get some sleep,” I said softly. “You look like you could use it.” As I spoke, I gingerly placed one hand on his forearm, his real forearm, reflecting on my earlier thoughts about his lack of physical contact. 

Despite all his self-control he visibly winced but didn’t make a move to put me in a chokehold. More progress.

**********

I woke up the next morning and didn’t hear anything. Not a sound. Again, I had no idea if he was even still in the house. I decided to go about my usual routine getting ready for work and give him his privacy in the kitchen. I could eat at the office. Just before I left, having still not heard anything, I gently knocked on the kitchen door but left it closed.

“I’m heading out. There’s a spare key here on the table, you’re welcome to come and go as you please. The key also opens the kitchen door if you’d rather go in and out that way.” Or whatever way you originally came into the house, I thought to myself. 

“Please feel free to use the shower and washer and dryer.” I figured anybody who’d mastered international espionage could manage a few appliances. “You’re welcome to anything you find to eat in the kitchen, and if there’s something specific you’d like I can stop at the market on the way home.” 

I waited a moment, and, getting no response, headed towards the front door. Impulsively I added a cheery “Have a good day!” before thinking about how silly that must sound to him.  
I’d reached the door and my hand was on the knob when I heard something from behind me. He must have spoken, since he always moved so soundlessly I never would have heard him otherwise. 

“Excuse me?” I asked, turning to find him standing in the kitchen doorway.

“Cornflakes,” he said. It took me a minute to remember what comment he was responding to.

“Of course, I’ll pick some up.” He looked like he wanted to say something else, so I waited.

“It’s the only cereal that tastes the same,” he explained. He seemed finished but continued standing in the doorway, evidently not wanting to turn his back on me until I was out the door.

I smiled. “I’ll get some. But you should really try Fruit Loops. They’ll change your life.” I thought he might have smiled back, just a little. “Stay safe, Bucky,” I said, and quietly shut the door, locking it behind me.


	2. Not My Secret

He pulled up just as I was pulling the shopping bags out of my trunk. They contained cornflakes, and the makings for baked potatoes, salad, and steak. I had yet to meet a guy who didn’t like steak. I didn’t immediately recognize him, but when he pulled off his sunglasses I saw that it was Sam Wilson. He was friend of Steve’s and we’d met at a party once, but it was weird that he was at my house. I didn’t know he knew where I lived. But reflecting on my current roommate, it was unlikely that his presence here was a coincidence.

“Hey,” he said, hurrying over to help me with the bags.

“Hi,” I said. I was a little distracted, trying to decide how much I should or could tell him. 

“Here, let me help you with those.” He took a bag out of the trunk.

“Thanks.” I said. He seemed a little unsure of how to proceed.

“How are you?” he asked carefully.

“I’m fine. How are you?” He seemed to be studying me, trying to figure out if I was lying.

“I’m good.” 

Having determined I wasn’t going to give anything away, he sighed. “Look, Steve has me take care of his business when he’s out of town. I saw your text and wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m fine,” I repeated. 

“Really.”

“Really.” 

He paused, studying me. 

“Look, if this was just a super soldier booty call, that’s your business.” Despite the circumstances, I was a little offended.

“I know we don’t know each other very well, but does that seem like something I would do?”

“I don’t know what you and Cap get up to on your own time.” He got serious. “But no, it doesn’t. That’s why I’m here. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m in no immediate danger, if that’s what you’re worried about.” The answer didn’t satisfy him.

“Steve trusts me enough to let me in on things. You can tell me if you’re in trouble.”

“I do trust you, but it’s not my secret to tell.” 

That was the truth, I did trust Sam. And I knew that Steve trusted him. But right now, I needed Bucky to trust me. And that wasn’t going to happen if I started letting people know he was here. Bucky seemed to be warming up a little. I didn’t want to jeopardize anyone, even well-meaning people like Sam, threatening that progress.

“I promise, Sam, I’m safe. But Steve should come over as soon as he gets back.” My thoughts shifted from Bucky’s safety to Steve’s. “I know you can’t tell me where they are, I probably wouldn’t want to know, but do you know when they’re expected back?”

“I don’t, but I hope it’s soon. There’s some ugly sh…” he trailed off, looking back at my face. “You know Cap can take care of himself.”

“I do. But I always feel better when he’s back.”

“I get it.” 

I picked up the last grocery bag and slammed the trunk shut, hoping Sam would get the cue to head out. 

“Let me carry this in for you.” He still had one grocery bag in his hand. 

“I got it, thanks,” I said breezily, taking it from him and heading up the walkway towards the front door. He looked at me suspiciously, and then looked up at the house. For a minute, it seemed like he might follow me to the door, so I stopped and turned back toward him.

“If you need anything, I mean anything, you call. Or text,” he added. 

“I will, I promise.” He waited next to his car until he saw me open the front door. Then he got into his car but sat in front of the house for a good ten minutes before he drove off. 

I took the groceries into the kitchen. 

“Why didn’t you tell him?”

The voice came from behind me, like always, and almost gave me a heart attack.

“I don’t know why I let you keep surprising me. I know you’re here,” I muttered, setting the bags on the counter.

He waited. 

“And to answer your question, it’s what I told him. It’s not my secret.” I started unpacking groceries. “That may not be the end of it, you know. Sam’s pretty smart. He might decide to keep an eye on the place.” 

I was used to his silence by this point, but I liked to leave in openings in case he wanted to say something. I was pretty sure Bucky had considered the possible surveillance already anyway. It may be why he hadn’t left. 

“So what’ll it be for dinner, steak or cornflakes?” I turned to Bucky with the meat in one hand and the cereal box in the other. This time there was a definite quirk up at the corners of his mouth, if not an outright smile.

“I’ll bet steak tastes the same too,” he said. 

“Steak it is.” 

**********

If I’d been deliberately looking for his backpack, I never would have found it. The only reason I did was that I dropped a water bottle into the garbage can outside while I was taking out the recycling. I reached down to get it and my hand hit something strange under a bag full of trash. It felt like a canvas strap. I lifted up the garbage bag and immediately knew what it was. Feeling like a traitor, I left it where it was and replaced the garbage bag. I knew it was important to Bucky and he didn’t want me to mess with it. It seemed to be the only thing he cared about bringing with him when he traveled. The only possession he had. 

I thought a lot about that backpack. What might be in it. Why it was so important to him. I decided maybe I could use my discovery for a good purpose. I put $200 in cash in an envelope and a note with my phone number. Unsure of what I wanted my message to be, I simply wrote “I’m here if you need anything.” I didn’t sign my name. He would know who it was from.  


I took out a bag of trash before I left for work the next morning and reached down, relieved to find the backpack was still there. I slowly opened the zipper and thrust the envelope down into it. I was pulling my hand back when I felt something familiar. A notebook.

Notebook?

I felt around some more and realize the bag was full of notebooks. Huh. I’d expected to find weapons or fake ID’s or something. Why was he so protective of a bag of notebooks? Were they records of his missions? 

I had never intended to go rummaging through his things. I felt it would be a betrayal of his trust. But then I thought about how hard Steve had been looking for Bucky and thought maybe the notebooks would give a clue to where he’d gone, where he might go again. Reaching down into the garbage can I pulled out the first notebook and flipped to a random page. 

I’m not sure what I was expecting but it didn’t matter. I couldn’t read it, the writing was foreign. Cyrillic maybe? I knew Bucky had been in Russia. I flipped a few more pages and saw some scribbling that could have been English. I could only read a few words. They seemed disjointed, as though he were recounting a dream. 

“Cold metal tube. Ice. Snow. Frozen. Reflection of me. Lights. More cold. Darkness.”

There were more snatches that must have been memories. I knew I only had a moment before I might be discovered, but I wanted to get as much as I could. I saw “Blonde man” a few times, but no mention of Steve’s name even though Bucky had used it when talking to me. Even the parts of the book I could read made no sense. “Sick kid, no heat, big shoes.” 

There was a number with no explanation. “R 32-557-038.” 

A motorcycle drove by just then, the noise startled me enough that I guiltily slipped the notebook back into the backpack and returned it to its hiding place. I figured that was the only chance I’d get to see the contents, but at least I’d done what I could to help Bucky if he took off.

**********

“So, you’ve been here for three days now and I’m glad,” I said over dinner the next night. “You are a very polite, if slightly alarming houseguest. And I don’t want to bring up anything unpleasant when we’ve been having such a peaceful coexistence, but I do have to ask you about something. What do you plan to do when Steve shows up?” 

He stopped eating for a minute, chicken piccata this time, but didn’t look up.

“Are you planning to attack him? Is this a trap? At this point, I’m not sure if I’m hostage, bait, or hostess, or a combination of all three.” 

He kept eating, but the way he was grinding his teeth seemed to indicate that he was also listening to me.

“I have to warn you, if you plan to hurt him, you’re going to have to kill me.” 

I said it simply, like my previous statements. But this one made him look up. It was funny, most of the time he lurked around with hair in his face like the Crow, or stayed in other rooms. But when he looked up at me with those blue grey eyes it was impossible to see him as a threat. As anything other than a desperate man. 

“I say this because I’m not going to just stand by and watch you hurt the man I love. Yes, I’ll admit it. I love him. He will probably never love me back, because he will spend the rest of his life pining for another woman. But I love him. And if you try to hurt him I will get in the way, and you and I both know I don’t really stand a chance against you.” 

He watched my face as I said these things, and his eyes reflected pain but the rest of his face remained unmoved. When I’d finished, he looked back down at his plate and set down his fork.

“I’m sorry,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

“Me too,” he replied. 

I thought he might say something else, but after a minute he just picked up his fork and resumed his dinner.


	3. He's Not Going To Hurt Me

I got the text the minute I walked through my front door after work the next day.

“On my way.” From Steve. 

I looked around the apartment and didn’t see Bucky, but then I didn’t usually see him until he felt like appearing. I hoped my little speech the night before hadn’t messed him up and made him leave. I did know Steve was looking for him and wanted to talk to him. But I didn’t want to have any part in setting Steve up to be attacked. 

I quickly checked all the rooms in the little house and didn’t see him anywhere. That didn’t actually mean he wasn’t there, just that he didn’t want to be seen. But I was trying to avoid an ambush. By the time I’d finished my inspection I heard a motorcycle outside. It hadn’t taken Steve long to get here, he must have already been close. 

He vaulted off the motorcycle and charged up the lawn and I got the impression that if I hadn’t opened the door at that exact moment, he would have left a super soldier shaped hole in it. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked without preamble, stepping past me into the house and looking around.

“Bucky’s here.” He stopped and looked at me. 

“He’s here?”

“Yes.”

“And he’s been here all this time?” His voice was intense, I couldn’t tell if he was angry or not.

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you—” He stopped talking and looked around again, as if deciding that the conversation was one we could have later in light of the current threat. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since I got home. I checked every room.”

Steve walked quietly to the kitchen door and slowly pushed it open. He checked behind the door, and then emerged. He held his finger to his lips and checked the coat closet. I watched him patiently, knowing that I’d checked all of these rooms already. He looked in the bathroom and the guest room, and when he walked into my room, I followed him. 

“He doesn’t come in here-” I started and was grabbed from behind. I sensed the knife at my throat rather than felt it. “Steve,” I said softly. 

He turned to me and inhaled sharply. His hands immediately went up in a passive position in front of him, palms out.

“Bucky, wait,” he said.

**********

It was him. The man from the mission. The man in his visions. 

Steve Rogers. Captain America.

“He’s not going to hurt me.” 

He heard the girl say it, over the buzzing in his head. There was static that hummed all the time, like someone had left a radio on tuned between stations. It was distracting. It made it hard to concentrate. 

He held the knife at her throat, knowing that a slight move from him could end her. He was sorry to put her in this position. After everything she’d done for him. And she was right, he didn’t want to hurt her. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. 

But he had. He had killed so many people. 

He was supposed to kill this man. 

No, he was his friend. 

Bucky, he was Bucky.

You know me.

No, I don’t!

You’re my friend.

You’re my mission.

Your work has been a gift to mankind. 

I’m with you to the end of the line.

The words crashed inside his broken brain until he couldn’t remember who had said them, or what they meant. 

This was a mistake.

The man who was Steve hadn’t moved, he just stood there with his hands up. But the girl had tensed. He realized his hand was shaking. His real hand. He risked a glance down and saw a drop of blood run down the blade of his knife. The blood of the girl he had begun to trust. 

"If you plan to hurt him, you’re going to have to kill me," she'd said.

He looked back up and saw that Steve had noticed the blood too. He wasn’t going to wait much longer. 

This was a mistake.

Bucky threw the girl forward with enough force that Steve had to catch her. He figured it would buy him a minute. That should be enough.

**********

“He’s not going to hurt me.” 

Margaret sounded crazy, calmly saying those words while history’s most dangerous assassin stood with a knife to her throat. Steve had seen that knife before. It had cut through the side of a van. 

He was afraid to do anything. He was paralyzed. He had been in hostage situations before, had his own life threatened before, the lives of his men. Somehow this was different. This was Bucky, who he couldn’t imagine threatening the life of a woman. But it was also the Winter Soldier, who had shot Natasha. Twice. 

This man could kill her. While he watched.

He stared into Bucky’s eyes, willing him to remember. Remember Steve. Remember who he was. Remember his humanity. But all he saw was confusion and fear.

Before he could decide whether to take a chance and do something, he saw Maggie stiffen as a trickle of blood ran down her neck. 

As fast as he was, Steve couldn’t get to her before she was thrown at him. He had no idea how far that knife had gone in, just that he needed to stop the bleeding. He grabbed her around the waist and yanked her back onto the bed, tearing apart a Kleenex box she kept on a bedside table and holding the wad of tissue to her neck. 

“Steve, I’m all right.”

He was afraid to look at her face. Afraid it would be ashen and white.

“Steve, go after him. He’ll run again.”

The words barely registered. Who would run again?

“Steve, Bucky.” More insistent now. 

He looked down at her eyes and saw that they were clear. Her cheeks were pink. He raised the tissue and saw that the wound was superficial, it hadn’t hit any major arteries. 

“Get Bucky.” 

This time it clicked. He jumped off the bed and sprinted out of the house, looking frantically in every direction. 

He had no idea where Bucky might go. He knew the layout of the neighborhood and took a convoluted path through backyards, searching for any sign that someone had passed by before him. But even as he did so he knew it was no use. Bucky was too good at covering his tracks. He was a ghost. 

Steve could have been back at her house in minutes. But he took his time, slowly making his way back. He had to think. What had happened? He’d been looking for Bucky for six months. And suddenly there Bucky was, right in front of him. But he’d lost it. He’d lost his focus. The minute he’d seen the blood on her neck, he’d completely forgotten about his friend. Even after she’d spoken, and he should have been able to tell she was all right. 

It was the same fear he’d experienced when he’d seen her with a knife to her throat. All his training, his focus, out the window. With the responsibilities that he had, he didn’t think he could afford that kind of distraction. 

**********

“I’m guessing the trail went cold.”

“There was no trail.”

Steve had returned after twenty minutes, looking dejected. He stood in the middle of the room, staring out the window, as though harboring a hope his friend would come wandering up the driveway.

“I’m sorry Steve, I know how much you wanted to find him.”

“He found me.”

“Yes. He wanted to see you.”

“Then why did he leave? I wouldn’t have hurt him. He knows that.”

“Bucky knows that. The man who was here, I’m not sure what he knows. Probably not much. He’s just trying to survive.”

“He was in your house for four days. Did he say anything? Anything that might help me find him?”

Before I could even answer, Steve turned and looked at me.

“He was in your house for four days. Did he hurt you?”

“No,” I replied immediately. He sat next to me on the couch and looked me over closely. Very gently, he reached out his hand and brushed my hair over my shoulder. He looked at my neck, at the bruises, and then back into my eyes.

“Did he do this to you?”

“Yes. But he didn’t mean to. He grabbed me the first day, when I came into my room.”

“The room he never goes into. You know he could have killed you, right?” A thought occurred to him. Probably the thought he’d had when he had first come into the house. “Why didn’t you tell Sam?”

“I didn’t think I should.”

“Why not? You can trust Sam.”

“I do. But Bucky doesn’t trust him. He doesn’t seem to trust anyone. Besides, what would Sam have done? I thought if I told Sam he’d want to come in. I didn’t want Bucky to think I betrayed him.”

“So instead, you stayed here, alone, with a killer.”

“Yes.”

“That was really—”

“Stupid?”

He smiled. “I was going to say brave.”

“Sure, you were.”

“We can joke about it now, but you were in danger, because of me, and I wasn’t here.”

“I don’t think I was in danger, from him.”

“You haven’t seen… some of the things he’s done. He almost killed Natasha.”

“But he was ordered to kill her. He wasn’t ordered to kill me. From what you’ve told me about him, it seems like he doesn’t kill anyone unless he’s ordered to. Or unless it’s necessary.”

He didn’t look convinced. 

**********

A week later I got a text that just said “I’m sorry.” I didn’t know the number, but I was pretty sure I knew who it was from. I gave the number to Steve, who tracked it to a disposable cell phone. 

Apparently, that was the only text ever sent from that number, and the phone never made any calls. 

He’d gotten a cell phone just to tell me he was sorry. 

I was sorry too.


	4. If You Need A Friend

November, 2023

I was sitting at the piano, pounding out a mediocre rendition of “Bridge Over Troubled Water” when somebody knocked on the door. It was already dark outside, but I’d always been a trusting person, so I swung the door open without looking first. 

He was so dark he blended into the shadows on the porch. Everything he wore was black. It reminded me of the “Invisible Pedestrian” costume in that old SNL sketch. Even his face was obscured by a curtain of black hair. But he was still unmistakable. 

“I appreciate you using the front door instead of just appearing in my bedroom. Much less likely to give me a heart attack.”

He smiled at me. A real smile. There had initially been uncertainty, as though he wasn’t sure how I’d react to his sudden appearance. Now there was relief.

“But if you’re looking for Steve again, I’d say you’re more likely to know where he is than me,” I continued.

“I came to apologize.” 

His voice was soft. He stepped forward enough that the light from my living room lit his face. I was relieved to see he’d lost the haunted look that had defined him during our previous encounter, but he still looked ill at ease. He kept his hands plunged deep in his pockets, as though he was worried what they’d do if he let them out. 

“Apologize for what?” I asked with genuine curiosity. 

“Breaking into your house. Holding you hostage.” He looked at the ground. “Cutting your throat.”

“I gave you a key. I came and went as I pleased. And it was barely a cut.”

He gave me a look. 

“You were a delight,” I insisted.

A smile came and went. 

“I wish I could apologize to everyone I’ve hurt, but I can’t, so I’m finding the ones who are still around.”

“As part of a trained assassin twelve step program?” 

Another quick smile. “Sort of.”

“Bucky, that was four years ago. Or I guess nine years ago. I got blipped.”

“Me too.”

“None of that stuff matters anymore. I know you fought with Steve when it mattered.” He looked to the side and then down, as though he couldn’t watch me talk about it. 

“Why don’t you come in?” I asked gently. “I was about to make dinner.”

He eyes briefly met mine, maybe to see if I was serious.

“No, I can’t. I just wanted to stop by and—”

“Apologize, I know. Mission accomplished. But a man’s gotta eat, right? Come in and have dinner with me.” I stepped back and opened the door wider for him. 

He didn’t come in, but he didn’t turn to leave either.

“Is there a Mrs. Winter Soldier waiting for you somewhere?” I asked, genuinely curious.

He chuckled at that. 

“No.”

“You’d be doing me a favor. I’d enjoy the company.” I flinched inwardly at how desperate I sounded, but he looked like he was still unsure. I held the door open and waited.

He hesitated a moment longer and then stepped past me into the living room. 

“Nice place,” he said, looking around, hands still deep in his pockets.

“Thanks. I had to leave my old one, they’d rented it out to someone else.”

“And some questionable parties knew where you lived,” he joked.

********** 

It was a different house, but still seemed vaguely familiar to him. Had the same feel as her other place. The place where he’d stayed for a few days. The place where she’d sheltered him. 

He had liked that little house. It had the warm feel of a real home. There were pictures of people caught in happy moments. Lots of books, some with bookmarks stuck halfway through so she could return to where she’d left off. Post it notes with little messages to herself; “Need brown sugar,” “Don’t forget your lunch.” 

An old piano with well-worn sheet music on the rack. A floral couch with mismatched pillows. A closet with games, some unopened, as though she was always waiting for company. Holiday decorations. It had been fall when he’d been there, with orange candles, pumpkins, fall leaves. It had smelled like an old memory of his mom’s kitchen. Cinnamon, maybe. 

She’d offered him her bed. Her food. Her company. Knowing what kind of person he was. It still floored him, even more now that he could take the time to process it. 

He hadn’t been lying when he said he’d come to apologize. He did owe her an apology. But the truth was, even after all this time, he’d wanted to see her. Had hoped she’d invite him in. Until it had actually happened, he hadn’t known if he’d be able to accept, but he’d thought about that closet with the unopened games. Maybe she really did want company. He could give her that. 

**********

Bucky stood in my living room, sporting the same dark clothes and hair as the first time, but his demeanor significantly lightened. The brooding had been replaced by an awkward self-consciousness. For the first time I could see how he could have been a friend of Steve’s. A shadow of what he might have been like once. 

“Can I take your coat?” I asked, extending a hand.

He paused, as though he hadn’t considered that as an option and was experiencing an internal struggle over how to respond. 

“I think I’ll keep it on, thanks.”

“Okay.” I didn’t push him. Figured it would be best to let him do whatever kept him most at ease. “No steak tonight, I’m afraid. I was just making some spaghetti.”

“Sounds good.”

“Do you want to watch something?” I asked, motioning to the television. He looked at the TV but didn’t answer, so I added “Or keep me company in the kitchen?”

“Sure.”

I offered him something to drink and he accepted water and leaned back against the counter as he drank it. He held the glass in his real hand, keeping the metal hand in his pocket. I wondered if it made him self-conscious. Or if he thought it would bother me. 

I thought about the last time he’d been in my kitchen. He’d slept on the floor with his clothes on, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. He didn’t look quite relaxed this time, but he also didn’t look like he was ready to jump out the window. He still seemed a little on edge, but overpoweringly curious. Like he was fascinated with everything in the room. He looked at the stove, the refrigerator, paused a while on the microwave. I thought I noticed him smile at my Kit-Cat clock.

“Do you actually like spaghetti, or are you just being polite?” I asked, hoping light conversation would help him relax.

“Everybody likes spaghetti.” 

I laughed, remembering Steve saying the same thing the day we’d met. 

“True. Well, you’ll have to let me know your favorites, so I can have them on hand if you decide to come back.”

He stopped drinking and looked at me, maybe trying to figure out what I’d meant by that comment. 

“Honestly, I’m not sure what to tell you,” he replied finally. “But I remember liking what you made last time.”

**********

Last time. He’d been in her kitchen before. He flinched remembering how he’d grabbed her in the dark when she’d come to check on him. To offer him a sleeping bag so he wouldn’t be cold. The Winter Soldier. It was equal parts ridiculous and incredibly thoughtful. 

He stood there, watching her cook, loving that she looked the same in real life as she had in his head. He hadn’t imagined any of it. The same soft brown curls falling around her face, same flowy skirts and fuzzy sweaters. Hazel eyes, red lips. He hadn’t been able to appreciate any of it last time, he’d been so messed up. She’d been a means to an end, a way to find Steve. At least initially. By the end she’d become a person but that had just made things harder. 

He would never forget finding that envelope she’d left in his bag. A simple thing, a brief note, a few hundred dollars. But the fact that she’d cared enough to leave it helped him a long time after he’d left her. Not just the money, but the gesture. The fact that someone had thought he was worth it. And a few hundred dollars had probably been a lot for her. 

Being here in her kitchen made him start to want things he could never have. For a minute he could pretend that a huge part of his life had never happened. That the terrible things had been all a bad dream. The torture, the killings, the freezing cold. And instead he’d finished the war, been sent back, and was home in the warm, aromatic kitchen of this girl. 

His girl. 

She even looked like someone he would have wanted to settle down with. He’d always favored brunettes. 

It was a nice dream, but that’s all it was. Seductive, but dangerous. It made him think that life was still possible when he knew it wasn’t. Not with everything he’d done. Not with who he still might be. 

But he could enjoy her company while he was here. 

**********

“Can I do something to help?” he asked, setting down the empty water glass.

“How about cutting the garlic bread?” I handed him the knife. 

He held the bread in his metal hand, which made sense since it was still hot from the oven. As I watched, he took the knife, expertly sliced off several pieces of bread, and then flipped it into the air, catching it back handed. 

“How did you do that?” I asked, fascinated.

“Hmmm?” He turned to me with a quizzical expression.

“The knife thing. How did you do that?”

“Oh.” He took a step back so I was safely out of range, and then flipped the knife into the air, once again catching it expertly in his hand. 

“That is cool. How did you learn that?”

He smiled. “Lots of practice.”

“Do you know any other tricks?”

“I think it’s your turn for a trick.”

I was stumped for a minute, then grabbed three oranges out of the fruit bowl and juggled successfully for a moment before one got away from me. Bucky reached out and caught it in the air.

“You know, if we got together, we could probably take this show on the road,” he joked, handing me back the orange.

“I’m flattered, but I think you’d find that’s about the limit of my meager skills.”

“Obviously not,” he replied, motioning to the spaghetti I’d ladled up onto two plates. 

“Your standards must be low,” I said, passing in front of him as he held the kitchen door open. 

“I don’t know. My mom was a really good cook.”

“Steve mentioned that. He said he ate over a lot.”

I put his plate down and went back to the kitchen for a bottle of wine and two glasses. 

“I’m sorry, I know I should have red for the spaghetti, but all I have is white.”

He grinned at my concern. “I think I’ll manage.” 

We both sat down to enjoy our dinner. I admired his work on the garlic bread and tuned to an Italian Pandora station for some mood music. 

“I wish I knew what they were saying. Everything sounds beautiful in Italian.”

“I know a little Italian, but not enough for a song.” 

“How many languages do you speak?”

He shrugged. “Five or six.”

“That’s impressive.”

“It wasn’t a choice.”

“Still.” I took a bite of spaghetti and swallowed. “I speak a little Russian, you know.”

For a second, I thought he looked wary. “Is that right?”

“Oh yes. Um, dobriy vyecher. Zdrastvooyte.”

A slow smile spread across his face.

“Very nice. Anything else?”

“Nyet.”

“Well done.”

“What else do you speak?”

“German, Japanese, Romanian, ah, Portuguese, Spanish. A little French.”

“What does Romanian sound like?”

He looked at me for a minute with those denim blue eyes and then opened his mouth and spoke. The language rolled and tripped on his tongue like poetry. I was transfixed. 

“That was lovely. Of course, I have no idea what you said. You could have been doing a Romanian vacuum cleaner commercial. But I liked the way it sounded.”

He laughed. “Maybe I should have been a vacuum cleaner salesman in Romania.”

**********

The truth was he barely remembered Romania. He’d spent most of his time there living in survival mode. Newspapers on the windows, mattress on the floor, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. He barely remembered a lot of his life.

But he remembered her. 

He remembered her asking him to stay. Remembered her volunteering her bed. Remembered her hiding him from Sam. Remembered the absolute certainty in her voice when she’d said, “He won’t hurt me.” Even though he’d given her every reason to believe he would. She had provided a safe place when he was at his most desperate. Human kindness when he felt least deserving of it. 

He’d forgotten a lot of things, but he remembered that. 

**********

“So, what would you like to do?” I asked when we’d cleared away the dishes. “We could watch something. Play a game. Do my laundry,” I joked, waiting for some sort of clue as to what he wanted.

“Could we listen to some music?”

“Sure.” I went to my trusty record player. “What kind do you like?”

“I don’t know. I think I missed out on a lot of it. I liked that music you were playing when I got here.”

“Simon and Garfunkel. I actually have that album,” I replied, flipping through my record collection. “I think you’ll like them.”

Looking over at him on the couch, long black hair, dark stubble, dark clothes, he looked like someone you might see at a grunge band or metal concert. But underneath all of that was a man who’d spent most of his life in the first half of the previous century. 

I dropped the needle and listened for the familiar chords. 

“I’ll let the professionals show you what it’s supposed to sound like,” I joked, turning back towards Bucky. 

He was sitting all the way at one end of the couch. A lot of guys tended to put their arm up along the back, lean back, prop one foot on the other knee. Relax. But Bucky had both of his arms down against his sides, the metal arm pressed against the pillow on the outside, hand still in his pocket. I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable or invade his personal space, but it seemed weird and unfriendly to sit on the opposite side of the couch. I settled for sitting in the middle, not quite touching him but not out of reach. 

“When you’re weary, feelin’ small…” 

I’d always found this song comforting. I wondered if he would feel the same way. It was fascinating, the idea that I was in a position to be with someone experiencing some of the greatest cultural phenomena in history for the first time. He’d never heard Simon and Garfunkel. Madonna. The Beatles. Never seen Star Wars or the Muppets. If he let me, I’d show him everything.

“When tears are in your eyes, I will dry them all…”

The light was gentle in the little house. The sun had set and the candles still burning on the dining table cast a warm glow over the living room. Enough to see him, but not quite enough to make out his expression. 

“I’m on your side, oh, when times get rough…”

There was a subtle movement in my peripheral vision, and I saw that Bucky had moved his hand over so that it rested on the couch between us. Not touching me, but close enough for me to reach out and touch it if I wanted to.

I wondered if he wanted me to touch it. If that was why he’d put it there. It was like being on a date in high school, trying to read signals and having no idea what the other person was trying to convey. 

“Like a bridge over troubled water, I will lay me down…” 

I wondered what he was thinking. Whether he liked the music. What I could see of his face looked relaxed. Calm. 

“I’ll take your part, oh when darkness comes, and pain is all around…”

I decided to take the plunge and gently placed the fingers of my hand on his. 

The response was immediate. He yanked his hand out from underneath mine as though he’d been scalded. I felt terrible, that after such a nice evening I’d done something that had clearly made him uncomfortable. 

I heard him inhale and exhale and then felt the warmth of his hand as he tentatively laid it back on mine. I looked over at him. He didn’t look back at me, but his strong fingers closed around my palm. 

“Oh, if you need a friend…”

We sat in silence and listened to the rest of the album. He never let go of my hand. 

I might have imagined it, but when we got to “Bookends” he seemed to hold it a little more tightly. 

“Preserve your memories, they’re all that’s left you…”

********** 

Bucky had just spent the most peaceful evening in recent memory. As he’d sat in the near darkness and let the beautiful words and music wash over him, he’d felt calm. Centered. Blessedly normal. But most importantly, not alone. 

In Wakanda, they’d done something to his mind that had cleared away the static. That had helped a great deal. Then he’d spent a year of solitude working and meditating and healing what he could of the rest of him. It had done wonders. Just being in a place where he wasn’t waking up and looking around wondering “Did I do something to that person’s family?”  


Until the fight had come looking for him, and once again he’d taken up a weapon. But this time it had been on the side of right. Fighting alongside Steve, as he was meant to do.

Being with Steve again had been rejuvenating. Had mended a torn part of his soul. But it had also been painful, reuniting with the man who had been such an integral part of his life, and knowing their relationship would never be the same. 

Steve had wanted his friend back. His buddy. His double date partner. Bucky knew that he would never be that person again. And watching Steve throw everything away defending his past sins had been almost too painful to bear. In the end, despite all his efforts to stay hidden, the Winter Soldier had been strong enough to bring down even Captain America. Not the man, but the image. The blood on Bucky’s hands had been enough to tarnish the shield. 

Steve couldn’t turn his back on Bucky because in his eyes Bucky was the same kid from Brooklyn who’d teased Steve about the holes in his socks but kept the schoolyard bullies away. Bucky knew he’d never be that person again and his failure made being with Steve as painful as it was nostalgic. 

Steve was gone now. He’d gotten the happy ending that he deserved. And Bucky had gotten better than he deserved. He walked the streets, a free man, when he probably should have been locked up in some Russian prison. Even he thought so. 

The only man who’d known him before he’d been turned was gone. Everyone else only knew him as a killer. A reformed killer, but a killer nonetheless. And most people treated him as such, if they paid him any mind at all. 

Everyone except her. 

For some reason she was the only one who insisted on giving him the benefit of every doubt. Who refused to hold anything he’d ever done against him, even those things he’d done to her. Her level of trust in him was disorienting, but addictive. If he wasn’t careful he’d end up getting too close to her. Letting her mean too much to him. And the closer to her he got, the more dangerous it became.

Speaking of close…

Bucky looked down at her hand in his. He tried to remember the last time he’d held someone’s hand and couldn’t. Tried to remember the last time he’d touched a woman with genuine affection and couldn’t. Even in Wakanda everyone had kept a respectful distance, except during treatments, when any physical contact was gentle, but clinical. 

He didn’t recognize his own hand. It looked strange, with her little red fingernails peeking out from around his broad palm. Her hand was so delicate, he could have crushed it in his. Could crush her. She’d be easy prey. And yet looking down at her he couldn’t help but feel she held all the cards here. 

Her eyes shone brightly in the moonlight streaming through the open window. "You feel like home to me," he’d said in Romanian. He looked down into those eyes, wishing he knew what she wanted from him. 

The only sound was the rhythmic catch of the record as the needle hit the end of its groove. It was hypnotizing him. He needed to get out of there before he did something they’d both regret. 

“I should go.” 

She didn’t say anything but let out a large breath she must have been holding and nodded. 

The both got up and stood awkwardly for a moment, neither one sure of what to do next. 

“Thank you for dinner,” he said. 

“Thank you for the company,” she replied with a smile. “If I gave you some spaghetti to take home, would you eat it?”

“Sure.”

She went into the kitchen for a moment and came out with a paper bag. She handed it to him and he looked inside, spotting a large plastic tub and a box of uncooked pasta.

“This looks like all the spaghetti. What will you eat?”

“I’ll be fine. I can always make more.”

********** 

I had the desperate need to take care of him. It was funny, he couldn’t have been more capable of taking care of himself. His strength and skills would make him a match for anyone he might encounter. But he still looked a little broken. A little lost. A little in need of care. Like commercials for shelter animals. If all I could do was feed him, that would help. 

He looked about to reject the food, so I sidled towards the door, hoping he’d give up and keep it. 

“I’m glad you stayed.”

“Me too,” he said, and seemed to genuinely mean it.

I opened the door, looking out into the night. I didn’t see a car or any other vehicle nearby. He always just appeared like a ghost. I wondered if he’d flown there. 

He stood in front of me, awkwardly holding the food bag in his real hand, metal hand stuffed firmly into his jacket pocket. He seemed unsure of what to do to end the evening. Or maybe he was as reluctant for it to end as I was. 

I took a breath, and the words all came out in a rush. 

“I don’t know if you really did come to apologize, or if you came for Steve, or for free food. I don’t care. But I’d like you to come back. For me.”

He looked at me for a minute, his eyes unreadable in the dim light. 

“I’ll try,” he said finally. 

Impulsively I stood up on my tiptoes and planted a quick peck on his cheek. He took a step back but seemed more surprised than upset by the gesture. 

“Good night, Bucky.”

“Good night, Margaret.”

He stepped past me out the door without looking back and disappeared down the street.


	5. The Beginning of Something

I wondered how he would contact me, if he ever did. If he’d call, or text, or just show up like the first time. The longer I waited, the less likely it seemed I’d hear from him at all. It had been over two weeks and I’d just about given up on ever seeing him again when I opened my door to leave for work and nearly stepped on a paper bag. 

I picked it up and opened it. There was a large Tupperware tub, brand new, judging by the smell. Inside the tub was a note that said “Thursday, 7 pm” in bold scrawl. That was it.

The note had obviously come from Bucky, although I was curious why he’d thought to buy me new Tupperware. I wondered what had happened to the first one. I couldn’t care less about getting it back, but the fact that he’d gone out and gotten me a new one was interesting. 

Today was Tuesday. Plenty of time to plan something for dinner and finish the gift I’d been working on in case he came back.

**********

He stood there, half a block away from her house, still trying to make the decision. 

This was it. 

The first time he’d just been accepting an invitation, being polite. If he went back now, it was real. Deliberate. The beginning of something. He couldn’t just disappear. 

His palm itched. He wanted this. Wanted her in his life. She was good for him. 

The problem was he was so bad for her. 

This was the reason he’d set a time. Told her in advance. It made it harder for him to skip out. He knew she was there, right now, waiting for him in that little house. Probably fixing his dinner. Listening to her big band songs. Standing at the stove, hips swaying to the music, delicate fingers sifting and pouring. 

He wanted to be in that warm kitchen again. Always. All he had to do was cross the street.

He thought of the empty one-bedroom apartment where he slept. Kept his meager possessions. Thought of the day-old takeout in the fridge. The blank walls. The silence. 

He thought of all the dates he’d gotten for Steve over the years and smiled as he considered maybe his friend was finally returning the favor. 

He crossed the street. 

********** 

I was dashing through the living room, trying to hide a few last things away in my bedroom before company arrived, when I heard the knock.

Seven o’clock, on the dot.

“Coming!” I called, dumping a pile of laundry on the bed and slamming the door shut before taking a moment to compose myself and pulling the front door open. Seeing him there on the front step made me pause. 

Bucky Barnes was a handsome man. The less haunted he looked, the more his natural attractiveness became apparent. He had gentle blue eyes, a square jaw, and even the careless way he let his dark hair fall in his face couldn’t hide the fact that it was thick and soft. I wanted to run my hands through it, brush it back over his forehead.

He was dressed in dark clothes again, burgundy raglan shirt with the top button undone. Black jacket. Black jeans. None of it hid the broad frame underneath. He was deep in the chest, with a narrow waist. A little like Steve, but more compact. 

Only the metal hand was in his pocket this time. 

“Hi,” I said softly. 

“Hi,” he said, and smiled at me.

“Come on in.” I pulled the door open and he stepped into the room.

“Something smells good,” he remarked. “I know that smell.”

“Pot roast,” I replied. “I thought it might be familiar.”

He started to follow me into the kitchen when I turned and asked, “Can I take your coat?”

He looked at me for a minute, and then smiled. “Sure, why not?” He shrugged out of the jacket and handed it to me. I took this as a very good sign and went to hang it in the closet.

“Pot roast? With the carrots and potatoes?” His look was almost childlike in its hopefulness and made me laugh. 

“Yep. And it’s a good thing you got me more Tupperware so you can take the leftovers home. Thank you for that, by the way.”

“Tupperware. Is that what it’s called? It’s handy.”

“It is. You didn’t have to get me a new one, though.”

“It was no big deal. Consider it a thanks for the food.”

**********

He’d stretched that spaghetti out over several days, eating much less than he normally ate so it would last longer. It seemed to taste better each day than it had the day before. He would have given her the Tupperware back, but he couldn’t seem to get the red stain from the spaghetti sauce out of it. 

And in truth he kind of wanted to keep it. She’d written her last name on it. The lid and the tub. For some reason he found that charming. Maybe because he’d spent so much of his life trying to wipe away every trace of himself from everywhere he’d ever been, while she’d been putting her name on things and giving them away. 

She held the kitchen door open for him and the amazing smell got stronger. 

He’d read that the sense of smell was more closely linked with memory than any of the other senses. Right now he could close his eyes and be in his mother’s kitchen. Could almost see it. The decorative spoons, the teacups. The lace curtains. The jars of flour and sugar. Being with this girl was giving little pieces of his life back to him.

“Can I get you something to drink? Dinner’s almost ready, I’m just waiting for the rolls to finish baking.”

Bucky noticed she had a glass of white wine. He didn’t drink often. There wasn’t much point. He had to be really trying if he wanted to feel it, and it would be dangerous for everyone if he wasn’t completely in control. But he liked sharing experiences with her, so he asked for a glass of wine.

She was wearing a red dress with a black belt. The skirt was full and swirled around her legs when she moved. It had been a long time since he’d paid any attention to what women wore, other than to spot a target or look for threats. It was only recently he had noticed how much styles had changed. Most women today wore pants, specifically jeans. Lots of tee shirts. Not much different than what the men wore. 

Not her. She wore skirts, always. Long skirts that made him want to follow the seam up the back of her stockings. 

“So how did Steve find you?” he asked, trying to remember she’d belonged to someone else. 

She laughed. “Find me? You mean how did we meet? In the parking lot at the commissary. He helped me carry my groceries.”

“He’s very polite.”

Her smile slipped. 

“I never understood why Steve chose me. He could have had anyone.”

That may have been true, but there had never been a question of why Steve had chosen her. Not to Bucky. He’d understood that, even as messed up as he’d been when he’d met her the first time. To him the question was, how could Steve have left her? He would have been good for her. 

Not like Bucky. Not with the baggage he carried. He didn’t want to bring that into her life. She thought she knew who he was, what he’d done. But she didn’t. Not really. She wouldn’t look at him like that if she knew. 

********** 

The rolls were done, and I decided to be fancy, since I had company. I kept a breadbasket and liner in a high cabinet and without thinking I reached up over Bucky’s shoulder. I’d been trying to be mindful of how much personal space he seemed to want, but we’d been having such a nice, relaxed conversation I’d forgotten he was any different than anyone else who had ever been in my kitchen. 

I bumped up against his solid frame and was again reminded of Steve. He wasn’t as tall as Steve, but I still had to look up to see his face. I froze, concerned that I might see discomfort or even panic. But instead I saw… heat. His gaze dropped to my lips and I forgot what I’d been reaching for. 

“Sorry, I’m just, I mean, I need to grab something…”

My babbling broke whatever moment might have been happening, and Bucky deftly sidestepped to get out of my way. I found my brain and grabbed the breadbasket out of the cabinet. 

“Rolls,” I explained unnecessarily, and reached into the toaster oven to get them out. So flustered was I that I pulled out the first one without considering how hot it might be. 

“Ouch!” I yelped, dropping the roll in the basket and sticking the burnt finger in my mouth. 

“You okay?” 

I nodded sheepishly.

“Allow me,” Bucky offered with a grin, and retrieved the rest of the rolls with his metal hand.

“You’re hired.” 

I plated up some pot roast, with the aforementioned potatoes and carrots, and smiled as he held the door for me. He brought the basket with the rolls and I went back to grab our glasses. Just like Steve, he waited until I sat down to sit himself. 

“Is there something in the oven? It’s still on,” he remarked. Of course, he would notice something like that.

“That’s a surprise for later.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I’m intrigued. But right now, I can’t concentrate on anything except this pot roast.”

**********

That wasn’t entirely true, but it was as good an excuse as any to stop thinking about how he’d almost kissed her. 

After what had happened the last time he was here, he’d been worried he might react badly if she got close to him. But that had been different. It had been dark, he’d been relaxed, not paying attention.  


Her hand on his had been so unexpected he’d acted instinctively. Forgotten where he was, who he was with. He was getting better all the time, but he still had some reflexes he was trying to get rid of. Residue from his former training. 

After he’d jumped out of the helicarrier, dragged Steve out of the water, he’d tried to start over. To make himself as harmless as possible. He’d had to retrain himself not to respond with force, to be near other people and not react. To not view everyone and everything as a threat. 

He’d made himself stand in crowded markets, packed buses, busy streets. Places where he’d been jostled and pushed. He’d shaken a few hands, sat next to strangers, but never this. Never any kind of intimacy.

Being in such close proximity in her little kitchen should have been uncomfortable, but it wasn’t. When she’d reached over and brought their bodies into contact, he hadn’t had the reflex to strike, or to flee. Quite the opposite. 

He’d wanted more. More contact. More warmth. A primitive part of him that even Hydra brainwashing couldn’t erase had wanted to pick her up with his strong hands, set her down on the counter, and wrap himself in her warmth. He’d managed to stop with just a glance down at her red lips, wondering what they’d feel like against his. Watching her suck on her burned finger had done something strange to his insides. 

Bucky had no specific memories of being with a woman, although he knew he had been. When he tried to remember, they all ran together into a blur of skin against skin. A few faces, out of focus, lips soft on his, but no woman in particular. As if he had dreamt them all. But the way his body responded to her told him that it knew what he wanted to do. That he’d done it before. 

He shouldn’t look at her like that. There was no chance she thought of him that way. She had been in love with Steve. Steve had been pure and good. Bucky was the anti-Steve. His hands would always have blood on them. They could never be clean. 

So instead he’d enjoy her company, eat the food she made him, and try to keep his hands to himself. That was enough. That was amazing. Starting with this pot roast. 

********** 

We ate in companionable silence for a while, Duke Ellington softly playing in the background. 

“I like that you listen to music,” he remarked. “I never do.”

“Why not?”

“It’s distracting, which can be dangerous.”

I was reminded that for so long he’d had to live his life always on alert, even after he’d escaped Hydra’s brainwashing. Maybe even more so then.

“True. Do you want me to turn it off?”

“No, it’s nice. And it’s not the most distracting thing in the house.”

I looked up at Bucky, who suddenly seemed fascinated by a piece of potato, but didn’t ask him to elaborate. 

“That reminds me, I have something for you.” 

I went into the other room and grabbed the gift I’d been working on since the last time he’d been here. I held it out to him. 

“It’s an iPod. It plays music. Here.” I reached into the bakers rack junk drawer and took out a pair of headphones. 

“So you turn it on like this.” I showed him how to unlock it and navigate the menus. It felt a little strange giving iPod lessons to someone who was an expert in modern warfare, but I was happy any time I found a subject on which I was the more knowledgeable.

“Here’s all the music. I grouped it by decade, so you can listen your way through the time you missed. Within decades I grouped it by genre, so it’s easier to figure out what you like. I tried to put a little of everything on there, but I’m partial to certain things so there’s more big band than country. If you find out you like something specific I can load more on there for you. Although if it’s country, I may have to reevaluate our friendship.” 

********** 

He studied the small metal device in his hand, hitting the round button and scrolling through hundreds of different songs. Songs that she’d meticulously assembled and catalogued. For him. He smiled when he saw there was a playlist called “Maggie’s favorites.”

“This is incredibly thoughtful, thank you.”

“It’s nothing. I hope you enjoy listening to it.”

Something struck him.

“You knew I’d come back?” he asked, looking up at her. Realizing what the gift meant.

“I hoped you would,” she replied. “Why don’t you check that out while I get the surprise out of the oven.”

Bucky put the headphones into his ears. It felt a little strange to have cords coming out of them. He’d used earpieces often enough, but to coordinate an attack. Not to listen to music. 

He was eager to try everything. He’d always liked music, although it was true that he didn’t listen to it on his own. Not for a long time. 

He decided to start with “Maggie’s Favorites.” He was curious to hear what kind of music she liked. Thus far the two of them had only listened to “old music,” music from his time before the war. He’d thought she might be doing it for him, to help his memories and make him comfortable, but she had so many old records he guessed she must also like it herself.

This was a list of songs he’d never heard of. He went to the first song and clicked on it.

Stand by Me.

A gentle guitar strummed a bassline with a drum brush adding percussion. It was soft, soulful. He liked it immediately.

“When the night has come, and the land is dark, and the moon is the only light we’ll see…”

Over the music he could hear sounds of her puttering around in the kitchen. Oven door open and shut. Silverware drawer. Clinking plates. Getting something ready for him. A surprise.  
He wondered if she thought he expected her to cook for him. If she thought that was why he came. If he should tell her he’d still come if they ordered a pizza, as long as he could share her company. 

She came through the door with two bowls of something that smelled even better than the pot roast and was just as familiar.

“No, I won’t be afraid just as long as you stand, stand by me.”

She set her bowl at her place and came around the table to give him his. She looked down at the iPod and smiled when she saw the song title. 

“Is the volume all right?” she asked. 

He pulled out one of the headphones and handed it to her. She bent down next to him and put it in her ear. Her face was so close to his he could feel the warmth coming from it. Could feel her soft breath on his cheek. Her skin smelled like flowers. 

“I won’t cry, I won’t cry, No, I won’t shed a tear…”

Something as simple as sharing headphones suddenly seemed very intimate. His pulse picked up. But for the first time in a long time it wasn’t anxiety or rage, it was excitement. 

She smiled at him. So close he could see her lovely hazel eyes dilate.

“Good song,” she said, pulling out the headphone and handing it back to him. 

“I like it,” he replied honestly, pausing the music and setting the iPod and headphones down on the table. 

She went around to her side of the table and he got the sense of a lost opportunity. Just like in the kitchen. He couldn’t decide in both cases if his overriding emotion was disappointment or relief. He knew that any steps he took to deepen their relationship would most likely lead to sadness and possibly danger. But he couldn’t help wanting it anyway. 

Then again, missed opportunity for what? It had been so long since he’d tried to initiate anything physical with a woman, he wasn’t entirely sure how to go about it. He just knew that a part of him really wanted to try. 

His attention was suddenly diverted to the bowl of steaming chocolate in front of him. Gooey cake over ice cream. The sense of recognition from the smell was so sharp he almost forgot where he was.  
He picked up his fork, needing to taste it, to remember, to bring himself back to that place where everything was simple. 

Where he was home. 

********** 

I watched with interest as Bucky took his first bite of pudding cake. He put the fork in his mouth and closed his eyes, making a face I will never forget. I wondered if there was anything other than food that would provoke the same expression. My cheeks burned picturing several intriguing possibilities. I hoped he didn’t notice. Lucky for me, his eyes were still closed.

“Do you like it? Steve mentioned that your mom made something similar.”

He didn’t speak for a moment, still savoring the flavor. Then he slid the fork out of his mouth and swallowed. “On my birthday.”

“She made this for your birthday?” For some reason this absolutely broke my heart. 

He smiled. “It was my favorite.”

“When is your birthday?”

“March 10.”

I waited a minute, and then prodded “What year?”

He looked at me, unabashed, and laughed. “1917.”

“You’re lucky I’m into older guys. I think that makes you even older than my last boyfriend.” 

He thought a moment and smiled. “By a year. A year and four months.”

“Wow, 1917. I mean, I knew that, but it’s different hearing it out loud.”

“When were you born?” he asked.

“1977.” 

He laughed. “In some part of my head that still sounds like the future.”

“To me it sounds ancient. A lot has happened since then.”

“I missed most of it. Tell me what your life was like.”

“Could you narrow it down?”

“Okay, tell me about your family.” He looked at me intently, as though my answer was important to him.

“Okay. Um, I grew up in Henderson, Minnesota. My dad was the city attorney. Mom was a lawyer too, but her clients never had any money and she could hardly bring herself to charge anyone. She only worked part time, in an office in the basement, so she could be home with us.”

“Brothers and sisters?”

“One of each. Both younger. My brother is an electrical engineer, and my sister is a physical therapist. I’d ask her if she has any suggestions for what I could do to help you with the metal arm, but she might ask questions, and I get the impression you’d rather I not tell anyone you’re here.”

“It’s safer for you that way.”

I thought about how Steve had said the same thing and decided not to remind Bucky that the only person who had ever come after me was him.

“What about you? Do you have any brothers and sisters?”

“A younger sister. Rebecca.” 

“Do you know what happened to her?”

“She died. A long time ago.” He didn’t seem upset, but he was so good at hiding things it was hard to tell.

“Did she have any kids? Maybe you have family out there.”

He looked down at his hands, flexing the metal one. “If I had any family that was interested in knowing me, I would have heard by now.”

“How would they find you?” I asked softly. “Honestly, I don’t even know how to find you. Do you have a phone number?” I was half joking. 

When he didn’t respond, I added “Do you trust me?”

********** 

It wasn’t her that Bucky didn’t trust. He was worried that if his phone ever fell into the wrong hands, they could go through it and track her down, along with anyone else he’d ever contacted. 

She did have a point, though. If she got into trouble, he wanted her to be able to call him for help.

“Yes, I trust you. I’ll figure something out.”

It felt strange, someone caring about whether or not he trusted them. He was the one people didn’t trust. With good reason. He didn’t always trust himself. It made him wonder again why she made such an effort to be kind to him. 

At some point, Bucky had begun to think that maybe fighting was the only thing he was good for. It was the reason people sought him out. Friends and foes alike. That made it difficult to understand why she was doing all of this. Why it mattered to her if he came back here. Maybe she was just lonely. 

Maybe it was for Steve. Something she’d said the first time he’d been here popped into his head.

“You’re Steve’s friend, so I’m going to take care of you until he gets back.”

Take care of him.

Even at the time it had struck him as funny. In his line of work, “taking care of” someone had a very different meaning. But he had gotten the impression she really had intended to take care of him. To help him. 

And she had. At very real risk to her own life.

Now here she was again, inviting him over, feeding him. Sending him home with enough food to feed a normal person for a week. Maybe it was still for Steve. Maybe she thought that’s what he would have wanted.

“So how long were you with Steve?”

She thought for a moment. “A year and a half.” She paused. “I don’t know how ‘together’ we actually were. He would come here when he was in town. His life was pretty crazy, I think he liked having somewhere to go that was normal. Separate from the Avengers stuff.”

“You were in love with him.”

She looked to the side for a moment and smiled, remembering something. Her eyes were gentle. “Yes.”

“You told me that the first time I was here.”

She laughed softly to herself.

“What?”

“You were one of the few people who knew that I knew him.”

“He asked you not to tell anyone?”

“Yes.”

“He was trying to protect you.”

“I know.”

“He cared a lot about you.”

“I think he cared about everyone.”

“I’m sorry if my being here did anything to drive you two apart.”

“It never bothered me, your being here. He’s the one who ended things.”

“He told me that.”

“He did?” She seemed surprised.

“Yes. He thought that he was putting you in danger.”

She made a sound just short of a laugh. “All the time we were together, the only thing that got broken was my hear—” 

She cut herself off, looking over at him, suddenly self-conscious as though she’d said too much. “I’m glad I got to know him. I miss him sometimes.” 

“Me too,” he said honestly.

She smiled to herself and began clearing up the dinner dishes.

“What?” he asked, genuinely wanting to know what she was thinking.

“Being with you is very different than being with Steve.”

Of course it is, Bucky thought to himself. Steve was a paragon of virtue and I’m the Angel of Death.

“In some ways, it’s much easier being with you.”

The remark was so unexpected he thought he must have misheard it.

“I think I spent so much time trying to be the person that I thought he wanted, I forgot to be myself. I have a much easier time being myself when I’m with you.”

He was speechless, unsure of how to respond to such a compliment. At his silence, she looked over at him and he saw the blush creep into her cheeks when she caught him staring. 

“So,” she began, very clearly looking for a change of topic. “What sounds good tonight? More music? A movie?”

“Is there a movie you’d like to watch?” he asked. He’d missed seventy-five years of movies and wasn’t in a huge hurry to fill that void, but he was interested in learning more about her. He wanted to see what kind of movie she would pick.

“Have you seen Star Wars?” she asked.

He smiled. “If it was made during your lifetime, it’s pretty safe to assume that I haven’t.” 

“It actually predates me by about six months, but I take your meaning,” she replied.

That was interesting. An older movie. 

“What is it about?” he asked.

“It’s an adventure story about good versus evil.”

“Sounds perfect,” he said. 

He moved over to the couch and chose the same end he’d occupied during their previous encounter. He tried to keep the metal arm out of sight, away from her. He knew she knew it was there, but he preferred to touch her with his real arm. The one that could feel her softness and warmth. 

She was all softness and warmth. He was becoming addicted to it. Even the little tastes he got when they touched, like when she passed in front of him going through a doorway or brushed against him clearing the table. He was excited about the idea of sitting next to that warmth and softness for the entire length of a movie. He just needed to make sure she was comfortable with the proximity. 

He thought about holding her hand in the dark the last time he’d been there. The slender connection they’d shared, and how comforting it had been to him. He wanted more this time but didn’t know how to ask. 

She put the disk in the player and turned on the TV. 

“I think you’ll like it,” she was saying. “It was revolutionary when it came out. It’s still considered a landmark film.” 

“I’m sure I will,” he reassured her, not able to fully concentrate on anything until she sat down next to him. 

He didn’t want to put his hand down on the couch, she might think he was trying to put space between them. He kept his hand on his leg, so it was out of her way if she wanted to sit close. 

She switched off the lamp so that the only light in the room was from the electric glow of the television screen. It briefly lit her face, but when she turned towards him, she was in shadow. 

She looked back at the couch, at him sitting there. Waited a moment. Walked towards him and sat down, in the same place she’d sat last time. Close enough for him to reach out and touch, but not close enough. 

“Is this okay?” she asked, turning towards him. He wished she could read his mind. At least enough to know what he wanted in this moment. He didn’t know how to do this part.

“Do you want… to sit closer?” he asked haltingly. Hating that he sounded like a child, or someone who’d just learned to speak the language.

“I’d love to.” She smiled at him. 

God, she made it so easy. She slid over towards him, closing the distance between them. Her legs were tucked up under her skirt, over to the side so that her thigh was against his.

“How’s that?” she asked, looking up at him.

Even in the cold, blue light from the screen her smile was warm. It warmed him everywhere. Parts of him that hadn’t been warm in years. Parts that had been on ice since the first time Hydra had locked him in that freezer.

Apparently his brain was still frozen, because the best he could do was smile back at her. But this was enough, and she turned towards the screen and started the movie.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…

**********

It was fascinating, watching Bucky watch Star Wars. I’d seen the movie a million times, so I wasn’t missing anything by observing him instead of the screen. I hoped he didn’t notice my interest, I didn’t want to make him self-conscious. His eyes opened wide like a little kid’s when the spaceships sailed across the screen, which amazed me when I thought about all the crazy stuff he must have seen in the past few years. 

He tensed a little during the fights and leaned in closer when Obi Wan was telling Luke about the Force. I felt him relax and sit back when the Death Star was destroyed. 

Sometime around the Millennium Falcon being tractored in by the Death Star I rested my hand on his thigh. He immediately put his hand on top and held mine for the rest of the movie. 

I’d been a little surprised when he asked me to sit closer but was not about to question my luck. 

This was not about seduction. It might be at some point. I was hopeful. But right now, I was helping a friend recover from a trauma, for whatever amount of time that might take. 

********** 

“So, what did you think?” she asked, as the credits rolled over the triumphant score.

He was still holding her hand and didn’t want to let it go quite yet.

“I liked it.” 

It was the truth. It reminded him of the Buck Rogers magazines he’d read when he was growing up. “I liked that it was so easy to tell the good guys from the bad guys. I wish real life were that simple.”

He didn’t tell her that in the part of his brain he could never shut off he was also thinking Blaster bolts wouldn’t have any rifling. Hover cars wouldn’t leave tire tracks. The part of his brain that had kept him alive for so long and made him such a good assassin. He wished he could just enjoy a show, a movie, a walk down the street, without looking for threats and possible weapons. Visualizing escape routes. Memorizing license plates. 

He could tell her which item in each room of her house would make the best weapon. What would be his choice for primary and secondary escape route. What he could use as a shield to block an attack. And in a new part of his brain, where he would put her for safety. 

He turned to her and caught her in a yawn, which she immediately tried to stifle. He checked the clock on the wall and was surprised to see it was almost midnight.

“You have to work tomorrow, don’t you?” he asked, reluctantly letting go of her hand. 

“Yes, but it’s fine.” She looked like another yawn was about to overtake her, and she was fighting valiantly against it.

“After how nice you’ve been, I can’t justify robbing you of a good night’s sleep,” he said, standing up. 

He reached down with his real hand. She took it in hers, and he pulled her up off the couch. She stood in front of him, still holding his hand, looking up at him with her lovely eyes. 

Waiting for something.

For what? He had no idea what she wanted him to do. What she wanted from him. What all of this was for. So he just looked down at her, enjoying the last few moments of her company before heading out into the dark.

“Let me get your coat,” she said finally. Apparently having given up on him doing whatever she was waiting for him to do.

She retrieved his jacket from the closet and handed it to him. She didn’t look upset. She still smiled at him, but he thought he sensed something in it. Disappointment?

“I’ll get the pot roast for you. I’m not sure what you eat when you’re not here, but knowing guys in general, it’s probably not very healthy.”

Bucky actually did try to eat healthy food, but it was difficult with his erratic schedule and dislike of being in public. He had no culinary skills, and no real equipment to make much of anything. There was a lot of takeout. But nothing compared to the food she made for him.

While she was in the kitchen, he grabbed up the iPod and put it in his pocket. He couldn’t wait to listen to it when he got home. 

And think about her.


	6. Maggie's Favorites

Over the next week, Bucky thoroughly enjoyed trying all of the different types of music. His training and natural caution didn’t allow him to listen to music out on the street, but he felt secure enough in his apartment to put the headphones in and listen to songs when he had a moment to spare. He’d already decided that he enjoyed the “Rock and Roll” playlist from the 1950s, and the “Blues” and “Folk” playlists from the 1960s, but that “Disco,” “Country,” and “Grunge” weren’t really his taste. 

The “Maggie’s Favorites” playlist was by far his favorite. He played through it a number of times. Because of the wide variety of musical styles it would have been almost impossible to find any commonality between all of the songs. But the more he listened to them, the more he began to realize that while they ran the gamut from slow love songs to pulse pounding rock, they were all overwhelmingly positive. Joyful. These were not the odes of a depressive. There were no songs about being sad and alone. No ballads to a solitary life. Even the slow songs spoke of love, of desire, of togetherness. She was an optimist. A romantic.

Because she’d made the playlist for him, he found it difficult not to want to interpret some of the lyrics as her attempt to send him a message. The sheer number of songs offering support and acceptance spoke to the soul of a kind person. He wanted to believe that was for him. At the very least, he could pretend it was. 

There was only one song on the list that he remembered from his own life, his other life. The life before. “If I Didn’t Care,” by the Ink Spots. He’d always liked that song. He wondered why she’d picked that one. Was it a message? Or was that just wishful thinking? 

A few of the songs almost made him blush with their unabashed sensuality, although he knew they were mild compared to a lot of what was out there. There was one song in particular that he liked. “Turn Me On.” A simple song, just some blues chords on the piano, and a woman’s soft, breathy voice. He liked to picture her dancing to the song, alone in her house. Shedding the ladylike skirts and dresses, touching her soft skin, bringing herself pleasure.

He wondered what she wore when she slept. He had a dim memory of a silky pink nightgown. From the night he’d grabbed her in the kitchen. At the time, her clothing had been the last thing he cared about, once he’d established she wasn’t carrying a weapon and posed no threat. He remembered the moonlight shining through the window. His hands on her upper arms, holding her in place. Her skin had been soft. He wondered if she still wore that nightgown. If she wore anything beneath it. 

When he was feeling particularly indulgent, he imagined her touching him. Her soft hands, soothing his body that never stopped aching. His metal arm felt no pain, but the rest of him did. He had spent years brutalizing his body in service of the mission, and there was always a price to pay afterwards. 

In his mind he could pretend that she wasn’t horrified by the metal arm, the grotesque melding of metal and flesh where it joined his shoulder. The scars, both from its attachment and his subsequent desperate attempts to remove it. 

Bucky was very visually perceptive. He observed the way people moved. He studied build to judge the body under the clothes in order to spot hidden weapons and traps. He did these things instinctively, whether someone presented as a threat or not. And because of the amount of time he’d spent in her company, and the fit of the clothes she wore, he had a pretty accurate picture of what she would look like naked. The simple beauty of her body, with all the clothing stripped away. 

She had a petite frame, narrow shoulders. But the generous curves of a wartime pinup like the ones she had hung on her wall. He wanted to fill his hands with those curves. Bury himself in her soft warmth so he would never again feel the howling emptiness of all those years spent locked in ice. 

The old Bucky, the Bucky from another life, would have known what to do. Would’ve known how to ask, where to touch her. How to touch her. The most he could manage now was simply craving her warmth and softness against him. It wasn’t about technique, just sensation. 

In his mind, she was as mad for his touch as he was for hers. He would explore every inch of her body, take his time learning what she liked. Coax gasps of pleasure from between her open lips as she shuddered beneath him. Hold her tight with the knowledge that he’d never again be alone.


	7. The Best Way To Learn

“Can I take your coat? Want to stay a while?” I joked, holding out my hand. 

“Sure,” he replied. 

He shrugged out of the jacket and handed it to me. I noticed that once he’d removed it, he pulled his left sleeve down further to hide the metal hand.

“You don’t have to do that, you know. It doesn’t bother me,” I said, as I hung the coat in the closet.

“What?” he asked. He seemed genuinely confused.

“Your sleeve. You don’t need to cover your hand.”

He looked down at it, flexed the fingers, touching the tips together. 

“Can I see it?” I asked. 

He held it out to me, watching my face rather than looking at his hand in mine. Taking in my reaction. 

Up close I could see that it was beautifully intricate. So many interlocking pieces. Like pewter laced with gold. 

“You know, the Japanese have a custom of mending cracks with gold. I forget what it’s called.”

“Kintsukuroi,” he said softly.

“Right,” I replied, suddenly reminded that he spoke the language. “They believe that when something has suffered damage and has a history, it becomes more beautiful.”

********** 

She held his hand in hers, so gently, as if she were worried she’d break it. The hand that had ripped doors off of cars, deflected bullets, punched through concrete walls. And she cradled it like a baby bird.

He looked down at her, soft brown hair grazing her cheeks. He wanted to smell it. Bury his face in it. Grab a fistful of it in his real hand, see if it felt as soft as it looked. His eyes moved to her red lips. His mouth went dry, thinking about feeling those lips on his. The longer he was in her company the more difficult it was not to try. He wondered what she would do. 

His gaze drifted lower, to where the rise of her breasts swelled at the neckline of her sweater. His metal fingers were mere inches from grazing her chest. He felt lightheaded at the thought, which made sense, since he knew where all his blood was going. 

“Ahem,” he cleared his throat, deliberately interrupting her tender ministrations, and pulling back his hand.

“Something smells good in there,” he said with a tight smile. A weak attempt to change the subject.

She looked up at him with her remarkable eyes, unreadable in the dim light. 

“It’s chicken and mashed potatoes, but I tried to make it fancy.” She smiled at him. 

“Sounds great,” he said, subconsciously pulling his sleeve back down over the metal hand.

**********

“The chicken has a few minutes left, but the rest of the food is done,” I said, giving the mashed potatoes a stir. 

“While we’ve got a minute, I have something for you,” Bucky said, reaching into his pocket.

“I’m intrigued. More Tupperware?”

He chuckled. “No.” 

He pulled out something small and silver and for a minute I thought maybe he was giving me back the iPod. When he handed it to me, I could see it was a flip phone.

I took it but looked at him questioningly.

“I know it’s not the latest technology, but its simplicity makes it more secure,” he explained.

“You know I like old fashioned things, but I’m not sure I can give up constant access to the internet.”

“It’s not to replace your phone. It’s to get ahold of me.”

I opened the phone and at the password prompt he said “Twenty-one, eighty-seven.” I laughed when I realized why that number sounded familiar.

“Leia’s cell block number? You remembered that?”

“Yeah. I have a good memory for stuff like that.” 

I punched the code in and the phone unlocked. There was only one number saved in the contact list. Under “James B.”

“You were right, you should have a way to reach me,” he said. “But I don’t want you to use your regular phone. I don’t want your number showing up on my phone. This way, the number is untraceable.”

I closed the phone, and held it, looking at him. “Do you have any reason to believe that you’re still in danger? Even after everything that’s happened?”

“I don’t know. I hope not. But I’m not willing to risk anything happening to you because of me.”

“Okay.” I was willing to do pretty much anything if it meant making him feel safer. “Does this mean we can actually make plans ahead of time instead of me waiting for a note on my doorstep? It’s like dating the Tooth Fairy.”

He laughed. I’d been a little worried I was jumping the gun by calling it “dating,” but he either didn’t mind or didn’t notice.

“As much as I’m able to plan ahead. I don’t always know where I’ll be.”

“Then you can text me. Should I show you how that works?” I teased.

“I know how to text. I’m not that old.”

“You’re a hundred and six. No wait, you blipped. You’re a hundred and one.”

He frowned. “Is that right? Can that possibly be right?”

“Of course not. Not really. I was joking. Bucky, you’re probably younger than I am.”

“Well, we know that’s not true.”

“Haven’t you ever figured it out?”

“Figured what out?”

“How old you really are?”

**********

He wasn’t entirely sure what she meant by that, but there had never really seemed to be much point in figuring out the mess that was his timeline. He wouldn’t know where to start. 

Apparently, she didn’t feel the same way.

“So you were born in 1917. When did you…” She trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

“When did I fall off the train?” he finished for her.

“Yes.”

“1944.” 

“Okay, so you were twenty-seven.”

“Twenty-six,” he corrected her. “It was before my birthday.”

It had been winter. Snowing. Freezing in that icy ravine. It had probably helped save his life, the cold preserving him like a slab of meat. But some nights he could still feel the cold in his bones. 

“Twenty-six.” 

She said it quietly, almost a whisper. She looked at him with such caring, such concern, he had to look away. 

“Do you know how long you were…”

He looked back at her as her voice stopped again.

“Out of the freezer?” 

He was trying to make this easier for her. She was clearly having trouble talking about it. It didn’t bother him as much, anymore. He’d lived it, but that part of his life was over. Her reaction was hard to take, though. He didn’t want her to think of him as a science experiment or tortured animal. He’d worked hard to get back to some semblance of normalcy. He would never be whole, but he didn’t want her pity.

“Yes,” she said, relieved.

He thought about her question. He didn’t really have much of a frame of reference for answering it. Hydra hadn’t seen fit to provide him with a calendar when they were trying to break him. Forcing their training on him. Sending him out to kill for them. The pain, the mental anguish, had stretched on endlessly. It had seemed like years. Decades. Eons. Longer even than 101 years. 

But he couldn’t tell her that.

“I don’t know, maybe eight years?” That seemed like a reasonable number. It appeared to satisfy her. 

“Okay. So you’re thirty-four years old. See? You are younger than me.”

“What?”

“I’m 41. Even with the blip. You’re a young man. I should be hoping you like older ladies. You should be explaining text messaging to me.” She smiled at him, and he couldn’t help but smile back. 

And just like that, it was gone. The dark ugliness fading back into the recesses of his brain, where he tried to keep it locked up. Driven away by the brightness that was her, like a bug skittering away from the light. The more time he spent in her company, the easier it was to dispel the darkness, to push it back into its place.

********** 

“This is very good,” he said, forking up another piece of chicken. 

I hadn’t exhausted my store of comfort food recipes, but I wanted to try and branch out a little. I figured Bucky probably didn’t want to limit his food choices to just things that had been popular a hundred years ago. 

“Is this goat cheese?” he asked. 

“Yes,” I said, impressed. “Quite the refined palate you have.”

He smiled. “Hardly. I ate a lot of goat cheese in Wakanda.”

I set my fork down. “You were in Wakanda?”

“For a little over a year. I was in stasis for some of that, voluntarily this time, while they tried to figure out how to fix me. But yeah, I lived in a hut there for about a year.” 

“What did you do?” I asked in fascination.

He chuckled. “I was a goat farmer.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.”

“What was that like?”

“Very peaceful. Probably the most peaceful place I’ve ever been.”

********** 

Except maybe here with you, he thought to himself. 

When he’d come out of stasis and Shuri had worked her magic on his broken brain, he had been given the choice of where he’d wanted to live. The cities in Wakanda were beautiful, clean and thriving, bustling with life. But T’Challa had suggested Bucky might prefer solitude to help him heal his body and mind. T’Challa had been right.

Being a goat farmer in rural Wakanda had felt more comfortable to him than simply going out in downtown DC. There, everything had been new. He had no expectations, nothing to compare it to.  


Everything had been a new experience. Here, things were the same, but different. And the differences made it feel so alien. 

Being with her, in her little house, was one of the only places where he felt like he fit. Like he belonged. Most of the time he didn’t really feel like he belonged anywhere. 

“You didn’t want to go back there? After everything?” she asked. “Goat farmer might be even better than vacuum cleaner salesman.”

“You think I should be a goat farmer?” 

“I think you should be whatever makes you happy.”

“Well then, I’m in the right place.” He smiled at her, surprised he felt comfortable saying it out loud. But the look on her face made him glad that he had. 

********** 

“What would you like to do?” I asked, after we’d cleared the table. “Listen to music? Watch a movie? Find out what happened to Luke Skywalker and the rebellion?”

He smiled at me. “What would you like to do?”

I thought for a minute and decided to go for it. I stood and walked to the record player, selecting a new LP and dropping the needle on the third track. Peggy Lee’s voice emerged from the speaker

“Linger in my arms a little longer, baby…”

Then I approached his side of the table and held out my hand. 

“Would you dance with me?” 

My heartbeat was so loud I could feel it in my ears. It was a risk. It sounded silly, the idea that the Winter Soldier might be afraid of something as simple as dancing with someone, but with all the physical trauma he’d endured I was still figuring out what his boundaries were. 

It just seemed that when given the opportunity, he did enjoy at least a measure of physical contact. I was gambling that this wouldn’t be too much, too soon. I didn’t want to spook him or make him uncomfortable, but I really wanted to feel his arms around me. 

If that’s what he wanted. 

********** 

Bucky stared down at her hand. He couldn’t possibly be intimidated by it. A dance with this girl. That would be ridiculous. After everything he’d been through, what he was capable of. But as he looked down at her hand, it struck him that he hadn’t engaged in any prolonged close contact with a woman in a decade that hadn’t been for the purpose of violence. 

Ten years. 

For the past ten years he’d only gotten close to people to fight. To hurt them.

The kicker was, he wasn’t a violent man. Never had been. Growing up, he hadn’t been afraid to defend himself or his friends. He’d been a strong kid. But it wasn’t a path he would have chosen. He’d been much more a lover than a fighter. Until that day he’d fallen off the mountain and changed the course of his life.

And here he was. Afraid to take this girl’s hand.

Not afraid of her, afraid of himself. Afraid of what he might do. Afraid of what he was capable of. 

Her expression slid into sympathy and he couldn’t stand it. He took her outstretched hand in his and stood up. 

He didn’t recognize the song, but it sounded like one he might have enjoyed dancing to a lifetime ago. One he might have played to make some girl his for the evening. He hadn’t been that person for a long time. He barely remembered what it was like to be that person. 

She led him to the middle of her living room and took his metal hand in hers, gently placing her other hand on his shoulder. She watched him carefully, gauging his reaction. 

He gingerly placed his real hand on her hip, not wanting to hold her any tighter than she’d like. She was the one who pulled him closer, until her breasts were almost touching his chest, and he could smell the flowers again. 

Every inch of him was hyper aware of how she felt in his arms. Aware of everything. Her smell, her warmth, her softness. Like his dreams, but a thousand times more potent. 

He was caught in this terrible limbo of desperately craving closeness but having to resist the urge to escape. Things were so much simpler when he was alone. 

“Is this okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he replied, embarrassed that it sounded shaky in his ears. 

“Are you sure?” she asked with a gentle smile.

He took a deep breath and wrapped his hand further around her waist, pulling her in closer. 

“Yes,” he said, more firmly this time.

The feeling of holding her in his arms was intoxicating. He’d gone from not wanting to risk touching her to not being sure he could let her go. 

Steve had been able to let her go. Maybe Bucky was more selfish than Steve. Steve had always been the better man. Bucky had wanted a happy ending for Steve. But until he’d fallen off that train, he’d figured he’d get a happy ending too.

Hydra had taken that from him. They had taken much more than just his arm. They’d taken his autonomy, his identity, and perhaps most tragically, his sense of himself as a good man. A person who deserved happiness. They had taken his whole life. 

But sometimes it felt like she could help him get a part of it back.

********** 

“What does it feel like?” I asked.

“Dancing?” 

I laughed. “No, the arm. I mean, what do you feel when you touch something?”

He looked down at the metal hand, holding mine, reflecting the dim light from the dining room chandelier. I thought maybe I’d made a mistake bringing it up. Maybe I should have ignored it. But I was curious.

He opened his hand, spreading the metal fingers apart and gently touching the tips of it to the tips of mine.

“It feels like when your arm falls asleep,” he said finally. “I can feel your fingers are there, but I can’t tell if they’re warm or cold.”

“Does it hurt to wear it?”

“The other one was heavy, but this one isn’t so bad.”

“Do you ever take it off?”

He seemed surprised by the question.

“No, it’s attached. Does it bother you?”

********** 

It bothered him. Not as much as the last one had, the one that had killed all those innocent people. The one that had been surgically attached to him after his real arm had been ripped off. 

At least this arm had been given to him by allies. Had been used to fight those who deserved it. But it still looked like a tool of death to him. Maybe to her too. The last time he’d been here it had been wrapped around her throat. 

“Not at all,” she responded, hazel eyes wide. “I just thought you might be more comfortable without it.”

“But how would we dance?” he joked, once again taking her hand in his.

“Like this,” she replied, gently freeing her hand and running both palms up his chest, wrapping them behind his neck. 

He stiffened for a moment, hating that after all this time he still had to remind himself that a hand behind his neck, a touch that should have been sensual, was not a threat.

One of her hands speared through the hair at the nape of his neck and she began massaging him there. He closed his eyes as an unaccustomed warmth spread through him. He felt himself relaxing. Felt his pulse slow. He made a deep, guttural sound in the back of his throat. 

“Do you like that?” she asked. Her voice was soft, low. 

He opened his eyes as her hands tugged at him, drawing his face down towards hers.

“What are you doing?” he asked roughly.

“Trying to kiss you.”

“I can’t. We can’t. I’m not Steve.”

“Neither am I.” He looked puzzled so she added “I’m not capable of spending the rest of my life pining for someone I’ve lost.”

“You don’t want me.”

“Why not?”

“I will never know for sure that all the stuff Hydra put in my head has been purged. What if I snap and attack you again?”

“I’m willing to risk it.” 

He laughed humorlessly.

“Do you know how crazy that sounds?”

“I’m getting real tired of super soldiers trying to tell me what risks I should and shouldn’t take. You guys risk your lives all the time.”

**********

His arm was still wrapped around my waist. With my hands behind his neck, my sweater rode up, leaving a sliver of bare skin above my skirt. I could feel his fingers there, gliding over the exposed place. He felt it too, I could tell. 

“I’m not worth it.” He looked as though he was trying to come up with an excuse I would accept. Or trying to convince himself.

“I think you’re overestimating the danger I’m in.” Unless you’re planning to break my heart too, I thought.

“It’s self-preservation. If you don’t get too close to anyone, then you can’t get hurt…”

“Sounds like a lonely way to live.”

“…And you can’t hurt anyone else.”

“You don’t think you deserve happiness?”

He looked away. It seemed I’d hit on something. 

“You can’t blame yourself for things you did when you were brainwashed.”

“Why not? It was my weapons that killed those people. My hands…”

**********

She took his metal hand in hers and kissed it, right across the knuckles. Looked back up at him.

“Don’t you want to kiss me?”

“It’s not about what I want.” 

Want didn’t begin to describe it. The need for her was as keen as any he’d ever experienced. He could feel the warmth of her through their clothes. The aching softness of the skin on her hip. His metal fingers twitched as though they intended to mutiny. 

“You didn’t answer the question.” 

She wasn’t going to let this go. He looked at her lips. His mouth went dry again as he thought about actually doing it. He swallowed. 

“Yes, I want to kiss you.” 

“Show me.” 

Knowing it was probably a terrible idea but unable to fight the urge any longer, he lowered his lips to hers. Just a light touch, he thought. Quick. A taste. Her lips were soft and warm, like the rest of her. He tasted them and pulled back, but only for a moment. Then he lowered his head and kissed her again, and again, and again. 

He felt the kiss along every inch of him. His skin came alive everywhere it touched hers. He wanted more. And more. Deeper. He couldn’t stop. Couldn’t force his body to step away from hers. Couldn’t even pull his lips away from hers. 

She opened her mouth and he felt her with his tongue, warm and slick. Fire surged through him like a drug in his veins, flooding his system with heat. It went up like dry brush. A place that had been without the touch of a woman for too long and was now set ablaze. 

His hand was tangled in her hair, tilting her head back to allow him better access to her mouth. His metal arm was around her waist like a vice, clutching her fiercely, knowing it was too fast, too rough. He was past any semblance of control. 

Her little hands grasped fistfuls of his hair. He would have laughed at her enthusiasm, her determination, if he hadn’t been so damn desperate himself. 

Even in heels she was petite, he was leaning down to keep their bodies touching. Without thinking he pulled her tighter against him, straightening up and lifting her off the floor.

She gasped into his mouth.

It was like being doused with a bucket of ice water.

He immediately released the arm around her waist and she dropped to the ground. He took a step back, not trusting himself to be within reach of her. 

“Are you all right?” he asked, frantically scanning her for signs of injury.

She didn’t speak right away. Just stood there, hair mussed, lipstick smeared, eyes wide, chest rising and falling with quick breaths. It was all he could do not to grab her again. 

“I… yes,” she said finally. She looked dazed. 

Join the club.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No.” 

He was glad, but a little confused.

“Good. When you made that sound, I thought…” 

Thought my nightmare had become real. 

The strength in his metal arm was such that he could have broken any number of her bones without meaning to, almost without feeling it. He’d spent a lot of time learning to gauge the amount of force needed for different activities, but he could still lose control. He’d lost control just now. It was dumb luck that he hadn’t hurt her. 

“I’m fine.” 

She was smoothing her skirt, running her hands down it, looking for something to do. “The sound was… I liked it. Kissing you.”

She looked up at him almost shyly. 

“That wasn’t kissing, that was… too much. I’m sorry.” 

She took a step towards him, and he took a step back, still being careful to maintain enough distance so his mutinous arms wouldn’t reach out to her again. 

“It wasn’t too much,” she insisted, finding her composure. “It was what I thought kissing you might be like. Hoped would be like.” 

She smiled at him. A sweet, hopeful smile. A smile that gave no indication of the mauling she’d just received. 

She must be trying to comfort him, make him feel better. Like she was always doing. Always making every effort to meet his needs, fulfill his wishes, ignore his past. Reassure him he wasn’t the monster he knew he was. 

She was a kind person. He was worried that her feelings for him were such that she wouldn’t tell him if he’d made her uncomfortable, or even hurt her. 

“Did you… did you like it?” she asked.

“Yes,” he admitted. 

He wasn’t going to lie. His skin was still on fire from where she’d touched him. His lips tingled. His hands balled up into fists so they wouldn’t grab her and kiss her again. 

“But we probably shouldn’t do that again.” 

Even as he was saying the words, he didn’t really believe them. And he hated how they made her face fall. Even just momentarily. But then the smile reappeared.

“I think,” she began thoughtfully, “that what we need is research.”

“Research,” he repeated, confused.

“Yes. We need to find out the safest way to touch. That sounds like a subject that could benefit from some experimentation.” 

She gave him a meaningful look, and a slow smile spread over his face. 

“That is the best way to learn,” he agreed.


	8. A Life Preserver

Knock, knock.

I blinked and tried to clear the fog of sleep. Was someone knocking on my door, or did I dream it?

I slid my glasses on and checked my clock. 2:37, very much in the a.m. 

Knock, knock.

Who do I know that would knock on my door at two in the morning?

The list was short but important, so I rolled out of bed and slipped my arms into a robe as I approached the door.

I peered through the peephole and saw a face half obscured by dark hair.

Bucky. 

He was looking to the side, hands clenched at his sides rather than in his pockets, like normal. He seemed agitated, but still together enough to use the front door. 

I yanked the door open and his head jerked towards me. His face scared me. Because he looked scared.

“Bucky? What’s wrong?”

He didn’t say anything, just stared at me.

“Come in,” I said, opening the door wide and stepping back into the living room. 

He waited another minute and then stepped up into the house. I shut and bolted the door behind him in case he was being followed.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?” 

You’d think if someone knocked on your door in the middle of the night, they’d at least be willing to tell you why, but he just stood there, looking at me. He was clenching his jaw, and his hands were balled up into fists at his sides. 

********** 

He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything but look into her sweet face, pink healthy cheeks. Healthy. She was fine. Not suffocated, neck broken, lying dead on the floor. Not pale and lifeless. Not like in his dream. His nightmare.

He’d had nightmares like this before, where he was once again under Hydra’s control. It was common, actually. But in his previous nightmares he’d simply relived the horrible killings he’d executed as the Winter Soldier. 

This one had been different.

When he’d felt the pulse in the slender neck he’d held in his hands, as he choked the life out of another helpless victim, the eyes looking back at him had been hazel. Long lashes wet with tears as she struggled for breath. Eyes that silently plead with him to remember her, to know her, to spare her life. Pale hands with red nails scratching uselessly at him as her air ran out. He’d felt her neck snap. The crack, like a twig, as his metal hand exerted the minor force needed to accomplish the task. He could have done it almost as easily with his real hand.

“Bucky, you’re scaring me.”

Hell, he was scaring himself. He hadn’t felt this messed up in a long time.

“Are you hurt?”

He wanted to answer. But his voice was stuck in his throat.

She took a step towards him. 

“Do you know who I am?” she asked softly.

Jesus, did she think he’d been activated? And this is how she reacted? Instead of running, she moved closer to him?

Not that it would matter. If he had been brainwashed again, been sent there to do anything to her, it wouldn’t have mattered if she’d run, hid, or barricaded herself in her room. That was the truth he couldn’t swallow past the lump in his throat. If he’d wanted to kill her, she wouldn’t have had a chance. Not even Steve was around to protect her anymore. 

He took a step towards her, reached out his hand, his real hand, and touched her cheek. She took his hand in hers and kissed the palm. The hand that could just as easily been there to choke the life out of her.

“It’s all right,” she said. “Whatever it is, it’s all right.”

Her gentle words seemed to break the spell. He made a choked sound and reached forward with both hands, grabbing her and clutching at her like he was drowning, and she was a life preserver. 

Because he was drowning.

And she was a life preserver.

He could feel her breathing against his chest. Feel her arms around him as she fiercely hugged him back.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

“I know,” he said, finally finding his voice. “But I am.”

She led him to the couch, gently eased him down onto it. Then she went into the kitchen to get him a glass of water. When she’d left the room, he had to fight every urge not to bolt. But he couldn’t do that to her. She would worry. He owed her an explanation. And probably an apology. 

He’d been doing better. Hadn’t had the nightmares as much since he’d started spending time with her. But every time he’d thought he was free, every time he’d thought he’d finally escaped the long shadow of the Winter Soldier, something happened to remind him that he’d never be free. Never escape. The best he could hope for was not to bring anyone else down with him. 

She came back in and handed him the glass. He took a sip while she watched. Her eyes held such concern. It felt strange to have someone so concerned about him. 

“Feel better?” she asked, after a moment of silence.

He nodded. He did feel better. But it wasn’t the water. It was her. Being here with her made the scattered pieces of his puzzle start to fall into place. Retrieved memories, moments he thought he’d lost forever. Little parts of his soul, reforming.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She’d taken his metal hand in both of hers. As funny as his real had hand looked this way, the metal hand looked even stranger. He wished he could feel the warmth and softness instead of just the pressure.

“You can tell me whatever you want, whatever you think I need to know, but you’re not going to change how I feel about you,” she said softly.

Bucky had no desire to test that statement. He just looked at her lovely face, memorizing its contours, preparing for a time when she no longer welcomed him into her home. 

“Try me,” she challenged.

He hadn’t wanted to do this now. It was too soon. He’d resigned himself to the fact that he was probably going to lose her when she learned the full extent of what he’d done. But she’d brought it up. She deserved to know. 

He looked right into her eyes as he spoke, wanting to make sure she heard the words.

“When I was working for Hydra, I killed… dozens of people. Innocent people. Good people. People who were trying to make things better. And some people who just happened to be in the wrong place.”  


He paused, letting it sink in. He was forcing himself to talk about the one subject he generally avoided at all costs. The thing that gave him the nightmares. 

“I killed men. Women. Children. I stabbed them, I shot them, I strangled them, I blew them up. I broke their necks. Slit their throats.”

He said it matter-of-factly, watching his harsh words hit her like bullets. He knew he was sabotaging himself, but he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t be with her a moment longer without her knowing everything. He knew he was risking any chance he had for happiness. But if this was going to go any further, she had to know it all. 

And maybe the sabotage was deliberate. If she left him, which is what any sane person would do, then he wouldn’t have to be the one to walk away. The thought of which was becoming more impossible all the time. 

She looked at him, waiting to see if he was finished.

“Did you enjoy it?” she asked finally.

“No,” he replied.

He wasn’t lying, he had never derived any pleasure from the killing. But he had felt a sense of satisfaction when he completed a mission. They had always told him he was battling evil. That the people he went after were dangerous. Harmful. 

He liked to think he wouldn’t have been able to do it otherwise, even with the brainwashing. He liked to think he would have been able to fight against it. But he would never know for sure if that was true. 

“When your mind was cleared, were you glad you had done it?”

“Of course not.”

He still had no idea how to process what he’d done. Didn’t think he’d ever truly be able to come to terms with it and accept it. It wasn’t the same as killing in war. These people hadn’t been in a war. 

“That’s all I need to know. All that matters.”

**********

He didn’t look convinced.

“You never ‘worked’ for Hydra. You were their victim, the same as all the people you killed. All those things Hydra did to you, made you do, it didn’t turn you into a monster. It made you try to be a better man. Because they couldn’t fundamentally change who you were inside. That’s why you can tell me all the horror stories you’ve got in that head of yours, all the reasons you can’t sleep, but it won’t change a thing about how I feel about you.” 

He’d been looking at me with those blue grey eyes, the eyes that couldn’t hide anything he was feeling, but now they looked away. As though he couldn’t bear to hear, couldn’t believe the things I was saying. 

But I knew they were true. And I would continue to say them until he didn’t need to hear them anymore because he believed them himself. 

As we sat on my couch, the lateness of the hour hit me and I yawned, loudly, in the silence. 

Finally, he looked up, taking in my tired face.

“I should go.” He stood up and started for the door.

“You’re not going anywhere,” I said, grabbing his arm. “Bucky, it’s 3 o’clock in the morning. I don’t have the power to physically stop you. But if you think I’ll be able to sleep after you disappear into the night again, you’re crazy.”

**********

He looked at her, wanting more than anything to do what she asked, but knowing how dangerous that might be.

“Stay.” Her lovely, tired eyes pleading with him. “Give me one night where I don’t have to worry about where you are.”

Damn. She’d found the only thing that made him consider it. He couldn’t deny her this, regardless of how ill-advised it was. His resistance to her was pretty weak to begin with. The only thing that ever made him pause was her safety. 

“All right,” he relented. 

“Come on,” she said, taking his hand. “You’re not sleeping on the kitchen floor this time.”

Bucky had seen military commanders show less determination than she exhibited as she strode past him into her bedroom. Bemused, he allowed himself to be tugged along with her. 

There was a lamp on the nightstand bathing the room in a mellow glow. The colors in the room were soft, soothing. Shelves with lots of books. A floral quilt. A wrought iron headboard he remembered from her other place. It was all very innocent and demure. 

Except that on the wall she’d framed a bunch of old drawings of pinups that would have been at home in a lad magazine from his previous life. Or on the fuselage of a bomber plane. Despite everything else going on, he couldn’t help smiling at that. 

He looked down at the bed, white sheets having been peeled away at the corner when he’d so rudely interrupted her slumber. He couldn’t image climbing into this bed with her. He felt he’d be soiling it somehow, simply with his presence. A dark stain on the pristine sheets. 

She seemed completely undaunted in her mission to make this happen. She’d headed for her dresser and pulled out some clothes, putting them on the bed in front of him.

“Here.”

Bucky unfolded the small pile to find a black tee shirt and black track pants. He looked over at her questioningly. “Are these from-”

**********

“No.” I didn’t tell him I kept Steve’s clothes in the closet. “They’re yours.”

He looked at me, confused.

“I got them for you.”

More confused.

I tried to decide how best to explain. “I thought it was possible that at some point you might want or need a change of comfortable clothes… here.”

At the time I’d bought them I’d been hoping it would be under more relaxed circumstances, but I was still glad I’d planned ahead.

He looked again at the clothes, reevaluating them now that he knew they’d been purchased specifically for him. 

He seemed to favor black. I didn’t know whether it was because he actually liked it, or because it helped him blend in and disappear, but I went with what I knew. They were the softest material I could find. I’d gotten another set of moisture wicking workout type clothes, but these made for better PJ’s. 

He set them back down on the bed and grabbed the hem of his shirt with both hands, starting to pull it up. I got a quick glimpse of toned abs before I realized how invasive it was of me to stand there and watch him change. 

“Wait,” I said quickly. “Let me give you some privacy,” and slipped out of the room, closing the door behind me.

**********

Privacy hadn’t even occurred to him. It was her house, her room, her clothes, even though they’d apparently been bought for him. Bucky didn’t think of his body in a modest way because he barely thought of it as his. It hadn’t felt like his in a long time. 

Then again, he could understand why she wouldn’t want to look at it. He avoided looking at himself in the mirror as much as possible. It wasn’t just the arm, although that was no treat. Sometimes he didn’t recognize himself. His face had become associated with something so heinous it was easier just to not see it. 

He pulled off his shirt and dropped it on the bed. He picked up the new shirt and felt it between his fingers. It was soft. He held it up to his face. It smelled like her. He pulled it over his head and down his torso. It was short sleeved, which left most of the metal arm exposed. But it was more comfortable and arguably cleaner than the shirt he’d been wearing, which was good if he was going to share her bed. He decided to leave it on. 

**********

I waited for what I thought was a reasonable amount of time for someone to change their shirt and pants, and then knocked on the door. 

“Come in.” His muffled voice came from the other side.

I opened the door and looked at him, standing there, clad all in black. He looked completely incongruous and somehow even more lethal than usual in my pastel bedroom. Like a tiger loose in a cupcake shop. 

The only thing that softened the overall impression was his bare feet. I’d never seen Bucky with bare feet. He could probably kill me with those feet, but for some reason it still made him seem less threatening. A window of vulnerability.

His clothes had been folded and placed on the floor next to the bed. On top was what looked like a small holster with a knife in it. It made me sad to think that Bucky felt he needed to be armed with a weapon just to come over, but I suppose I should have been relieved he didn’t feel the need to keep it strapped to his ankle under the covers.

“Do they fit okay?” I asked rather redundantly.

They fit spectacularly. At least from my standpoint. The shirt was snug enough to trace each muscle and sinew of his upper body, and the pants clung to his hard thighs. 

Hard thighs of a trauma victim, I reminded myself. 

“They’re fine,” he replied, answering a question I’d already forgotten I’d asked.

“Great. So, do you have a preferred side of the bed?” 

“This side is fine,” he replied, motioning to the side opposite the nightstand. The side where his clothes and knife were.

“Works for me. Let’s get some sleep.” 

I crossed to the other side of the bed and slid under the covers. He peeled back the sheet and gingerly crawled in like a man climbing into boiling water. 

I had to fight the urge to giggle. It was just so ridiculous. The most ridiculous sleepover ever. But I hadn’t been lying about wanting just one night where I knew he was safe.  


When he’d laid down and settled the covers over himself, I turned off the light. We lay there in silence for a moment. 

It felt like he was very far away.

“Do you mind… would it be okay if I moved closer?”

I was in uncharted territory here. I assumed that sharing a bed wasn’t something he made a habit of doing, and he might need a certain amount of personal space. But I was also coming to understand that when he felt safe, Bucky enjoyed human contact. Craved it. I thought I’d take a chance, and if he was uncomfortable I could always move away, or just get out of the bed altogether. 

I inched my way over until I could feel the warmth coming from him. I gently touched my hand to his side so he could feel where I was. He immediately reached down with his hand and took mine in his, bringing it up and resting it on his chest. I felt him take and release a deep breath. 

The next decision was whether to ask about why he was here, or let it go until the morning. He seemed to have lowered his barriers a little. I thought I should at least ask the question.

“Do you want to talk about why you came over?”

There was a pause, and I thought maybe he wouldn’t answer.

“I had a dream.”

“And something bad happened?”

“Yes.”

“To me?”

Another pause.

“Yeah.”

“So, you came over because you were worried?”

He didn’t respond, but he tightened his grip on my hand.

**********

Bucky didn’t remember giving it much conscious thought. He just knew he’d needed to get to her. To see her breathing.

“I guess.” 

“Where do you go when you’re not here?” she asked softly. “Are you an Avenger? A spy? A vacuum cleaner salesman?”

When he didn’t respond, she added “Because, for the record, I’d prefer vacuum cleaner salesman.”

He smiled in the dark. 

“Let’s go with that, then,” he replied.

“It’s classified?”

“The less you know, the safer you are.”

“So, you’d rather I not ask about it.” She sound resigned.

“Is that bad?”

“No, just familiar.” 

She reached down and pulled at his arm that had gotten trapped between them, lifting it up and around her and resting her head on his shoulder.

Bucky had mixed feelings about the dark. The dark was safe, covert, made it easier to blend in and slip away. 

But darkness was cold and empty. The nauseous isolation of the freezer they locked him in year after year. 

Sharing her bed gave him a new appreciation for the dark. It was warm and soft, like her. Made it easier to talk about things. Like he was floating in space but anchored by the sound of her voice and the slight weight of her hand on his chest. 

It was a novel sensation, lying next to someone in bed. He couldn’t remember ever having done it before. It was possible he never had. But it was something he felt he could get used to dangerously fast. 

“How would I know if something happened to you?” she asked softly.

“Would it matter to you?”

“Yes, it would matter to me. You matter to me.” She propped herself up and looked at him in the dark. “I don’t know where you go, or what you do when you’re not here. Just know that there is someone who cares a lot about whether or not you make it back.”

He couldn’t see her face very well in the dark, but he could hear the emotion in her voice. She meant it. For some reason, she genuinely cared about him. It made him want to care about himself, if only so he wouldn’t disappoint her. 

He lifted his hand to her cheek, sliding it behind her neck and gently pulling her down towards him. Bringing her lips to his so he could drink up her concern, her fierce protectiveness. Imbibe it so that he would at last be able to view himself as worthy of another person’s love. 

Her lips were soft. She tasted like strawberry and mint. The scent of flowers filled his nostrils. 

He was determined not to lose control this time. He didn’t want things to go too far. Well, part of him wanted it to go as far as it could, but he was very aware of where they were, and he didn’t want her to think he viewed the invitation to share her bed as an invitation to do whatever he liked in it. She’d asked out of kindness, protectiveness. The fact she seemed protective of him was a source of constant perplexment, but he was touched by it. 

It also made him protective of her.

He forced himself to pull away first, if only to prove that he could. To both of them. 

She laid back down on his arm, the subtle weight of her hand a reassuring pressure on his chest.

“Goodnight, Bucky.”

“Goodnight, Margaret.”

********** 

He stirred in the night, restless, looking for something. 

He heard her voice say, “It’s all right, go back to sleep.” 

He imagined he pulled her soft form against him. The dream was so real, he could almost feel her warmth. He relaxed into it and fell back to sleep.


	9. Lightness

I opened my eyes to see the sun was already starting to peek through the blinds. I hadn’t set my alarm. It was a workday, but I’d texted my boss when Bucky was changing to let her know I was helping a friend with an emergency and would be in a little late. There was an unaccustomed weight on my ribcage. I looked down and saw Bucky’s metal arm draped over my side. I was holding the hand in mine. 

I could feel him behind me. Solid and reassuring. He wasn’t moving. I was hoping he was still asleep, after the late night he’d had. I didn’t want to wake him, but I had to go to the bathroom. I gently rolled onto my back, intending to slide out from under his arm.

I couldn’t help turning my head, wanting to see the Winter Soldier asleep. 

Instead I looked into two blue eyes and gasped.

“God, Bucky, you scared me.”

“And here I thought lying in bed was just about the least scary thing I’ve ever done,” he joked.

He seemed very relaxed. I loved how he looked laying in my bed. Not quite as dark as usual with the sun brightening the room, making his normally shaded blue eyes light and clear, his lips drawing up into a real smile. He could have been anyone, waking up after sharing someone’s bed for the first time. Here because he’d wanted my company all night long, not because he’d needed to be sure he hadn’t killed me.

Maybe someday, that would be the case. 

**********

Interesting. Waking up with a metal arm around her hadn’t scared her, but his face had. 

Maybe he should shave. 

Bucky had been awake for a while, enjoying the lightness of the room. The lightness of himself. He felt more at peace here than he did back at his apartment. He never called it “home,” that didn’t seem to fit. But here in this place, in the soft morning light, his nightmare felt very distant. Like something that had happened to somebody else. 

Even in her sleep she’d been soft and warm. It had reminded him of that pretty song she’d put on his iPod.

I can hear the soft breathing of the girl that I love,  
As she lies here beside me asleep with the night…  
She is soft, she is warm, but my heart remains heavy  
And I watch as her breasts gently rise, gently fall.

For so long his life had been lacking in softness and warmth. In affection of any kind. Any positive attention he had received had been used only to manipulate him into fulfilling their evil demands. It made him not want to trust it. 

He trusted HER but didn’t trust that it could last. That any of this could last. 

For I know with the first light of dawn I'll be leaving,  
And tonight will be all I have left to recall.

He had wanted to pull her closer, but he’d been afraid to move for fear of waking her. Afraid of doing something that might take advantage of her as she slept. Something she wouldn’t have wanted if she’d been awake. He’d had his own body violated any number of ways, used as a tool to violate others, he was always extremely careful of people’s boundaries.  


And then she’d rolled over and looked at him.

Her eyes were still drowsy, lingering effects from having been pulled out of bed in the middle of the night. Her curls were tousled and loose. Her face clean of makeup. Just a faint crease across her cheek from where she’d lain on a wrinkle in the pillowcase. 

She looked perfect.

“Did you sleep all right?” she asked.

“I did,” he answered honestly. Better than most nights. 

“Maybe you should sleep here more often. Maybe we’d both get more rest.” 

Almost immediately her smile slipped, left her looking as though she’d made a mistake. He wasn’t good enough at reading women to know if the mistake had been having the thought or saying it out loud. 

As tempting as the idea was, he shouldn’t get in the practice of staying here. The more time he spent here, the more likely it was that people would find out about her, and that put her at risk. But for the moment, he pushed those worries to the side so he could just enjoy being in her company. 

“Are you more of an eggs and bacon breakfast, or cereal kind of guy?” she asked.

“Cereal is fine,” he replied. Cereal was all he ever had for breakfast at his place. And sometimes for dinner.

She stood up and he could see she was wearing a satiny nightgown. In the early light of day, he was better able to appreciate how she looked in it, but after glancing down and noticing the way it clung to her body, he couldn’t bring himself to look again. It didn’t do much to hide anything. He was pretty sure he’d accidentally seen more than she had intended to show.  


She retrieved a robe in a pretty blue floral design and fastened it over her nightgown.

Thank God, he thought, having wondered how he was going to eat breakfast across from her while preventing his eyes from drifting downwards over her body. 

She started towards the door, and almost immediately bumped into her dresser. He watched with amusement as she turned around, retrieved her glasses from her nightstand, and put them on. She gave a self-conscious smile, which he returned with a broader one and then she headed towards the kitchen. 

He noticed that she’d shut the bedroom door again, ostensibly to give him privacy. The way she respected his space was just one more little way she made him feel cared for. Worthy of consideration. He hadn’t expected privacy the previous evening, but the fact that she'd made the effort to give it to him was beginning to change the way he felt about himself.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and looked down at his pile of clothes. The knife was on top. He’d only worn one. He knew the area by now, felt relatively safe here. And considering the hour of his visit he hadn’t expected to come across anyone.

He stood and reached down to take off the black shirt she’d given to him. As he pulled it up past his face, he inhaled. He stopped, pulled it back down over his stomach and put his own shirt on top. Figured he should probably wash it for her. It was the least he could do. He couldn’t quite admit, even to himself, that he wanted to keep it because it still smelled like her. 

He dropped the black track pants and pulled his jeans back on. Buckled the knife around his ankle. Took a last look around the sunny room, smiled at the pinups, and headed into the kitchen.

There was a box of cornflakes out on the counter, next to a carton of milk and an empty bowl and spoon.

“Is that okay?” she asked. 

“It’s great, thanks.” 

He grabbed the box and noticed it was unopened.

“I got it for you,” she said, anticipating his question. “You said it was the only cereal that tasted the same.”

He had to think a minute to remember when he’d said that. The last time he’d been here. 

Nine years ago. She’d remembered.

********** 

I watched Bucky open the cereal and pour himself a bowl. There was something endearing about the sight of him doing something so normal, knowing everything he’d been through and everything he was capable of. Like a reminder that everyone put their pants on one leg at a time. Even trained assassins. 

As he sat down in the chair and spooned up a load of cornflakes, I caught him staring at something and followed his gaze to see what had caught his attention. He was looking at a shelf of pantry items. 

“Can I get you something else?” I asked.

“Oh, no thanks, I was just wondering what that was.”

I looked back up at the shelf. There was a box of graham crackers, some cereal, a few cans of soup. 

“Pop-Tarts?” I asked. 

I went to the shelf and pulled down the box, handing it to him. He studied it with interest. 

“Is it a dessert?”

“Kind of. Some people eat it for breakfast. Would you like to try one?”

He hesitated, looking like he did want to, but didn’t want to put me to the trouble of making it. Knowing what I did about his fondness for chocolate I thought he might like it. 

“Here, let me make you one. It’s easy, it just goes in the toaster.”

I took the box, and opened a package, sticking a pastry into the slot. 

“They have different kinds, but these are my favorite. Do you know what s’mores are?”

He frowned. “Something with marshmallows?”

“Yes. It’s a graham cracker sandwich with marshmallow and chocolate.”

The toaster popped and I put the Pop-Tart on a plate, trying not to burn my fingers in the process.

“Wait a minute to try that, it’s hot inside. I speak from personal experience.”

He looked down at the Pop-Tart and took another bite of his cereal. 

“So, are there any other breakfast foods I should keep on hand?” I asked casually, sitting down to my own bowl of cereal. 

He stopped chewing for a moment but gave no other indication he’d picked up on any innuendo. 

After swallowing, he replied “I’ve heard Fruit Loops are good.” 

He looked up and his eyes met mine. The smile he gave me across his cereal bowl made my breath catch. The more comfortable he was with me, the more his natural charm came through. I was starting to see what he must have been like before the war. Before everything. 

**********

Bucky munched on his cornflakes and studied her. Studied the steam wafting up from her coffee cup. It smelled like chocolate. She seemed to like chocolate as much as he did. 

He studied her kitchen. He’d been here a number of times, but never in the light of day. Warm sunlight drifted in past the lace curtains. He could hear birds singing. A child playing outside. A ball bouncing on the pavement. He tried to hear all of the sounds without searching for danger. To appreciate them for what they were. He wondered if he would ever be able to simply enjoy his surroundings. Enjoy life. Being with her was the closest he ever came. 

He wondered if Steve had felt the same way. Thought the same thoughts. If Steve had considered living a simple life with her. Bucky knew ultimately Steve hadn’t been willing to sacrifice her safety for his chance at happiness. He’d told Bucky as much. Bucky knew he should do the same thing. But the temptation was strong. He could feel it tugging at him. He just wasn’t sure that he’d earned it yet.  


Before he’d met Margaret, he’d never imagined that he could have a chance at a normal life. It didn’t much matter, the life he'd known had ended a long time ago. It was a simple thing to just exist, take up as little room as he could. Try not to hurt anyone. Do his best to make amends. Consider his life already lost, so if it ended there was no regret.

But then he’d come back here. Been invited in. Seen what a normal life could be like. Smelled it. Tasted it. Touched it. 

It was soft and warm. Comforting. Lovely. Made it hard to go back to just existing. Even after the short time they’d been together, he was finding it difficult to stay away. 

If she was the one who ended things, then it would be easier. He would just be following her wishes. But after their conversation last night, he wasn’t sure there was anything he could say that would convince her to leave. 

To keep her safe, he was willing to try. 

**********

“About what I said last night,” he began.

“I heard you,” I interrupted, wanting to spare him reliving the nightmares again. “I knew it already.”

“I don’t think you did. Or still do. Not all of it.” 

“I was with Steve for over a year. I’m no stranger to violence.”

“I wasn’t like Steve. He was a soldier. I was a murderer. There was nothing noble or heroic about it.”

He wasn’t going to let this go. I wasn’t sure how to make him understand. So maybe I’d just have to try something else. 

“Do you trust me?”

“YES.” 

His answer was immediate and emphatic. The force of it surprised me.

“Then let me decide how I feel about your past. Stop trying to convince me to leave you.”

Something shifted in his eyes then. 

“Do you want me to end this?” I asked.

He sighed. “No. Not really.”

I smiled. “Good. Because I’m not going to.”

He smiled at my certainty and shook his head. I went for a change of subject. 

“Why don’t you give your Pop-Tart a try? It should be cool by now.” 

He picked it up and took a bite.

“So, what do you think?”

He chewed it and looked thoughtful.

“It’s very sweet.”

“It is. I don’t usually have them for breakfast. I usually eat them for a midnight snack.”

“Handy, when you have midnight visitors.” 

I returned his smile, but then his dropped. 

“I’m sorry about last night. Waking you up.”

“Don’t apologize. I’d much rather wake up in the middle of the night to find out you’re safe, than the alternative. I definitely slept better, knowing you were all right.”

“Me too,” he replied.

He appeared to let the subject drop, for now. But I could tell it was still bothering him. 

After we’d both finished breakfast he helped me clear the dishes and sidled towards the front door. His hands were back in his pockets. 

“I should go. Let you get back to your day. Thanks again, for everything.”

“You don’t have to thank me for being here for you, Bucky.”

He looked self-consciously down at his shoes. He and Steve had this in common. They were both capable, powerful men, but some social interactions apparently still left them feeling awkward. It made me smile. 

“It seems strange to send you home without food. Do you want the box of Pop-Tarts?”

He laughed. “Keep them here for me. We’ll have them as a midnight snack.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” I said softly. 

He gave me a searching look, as if trying to decide what I’d meant by the remark. I raised an eyebrow suggestively, a subtle clue that I’d meant exactly what I’d said. He grinned and bent down, giving me a kiss on the cheek.

“Stay safe,” I said, looking up at him. Meaning the words.

“You, too.” 

Impulsively I raised up on my tiptoes, threw a hand around his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. He reached an arm around my waist, holding me against him. His mouth was warm, his lips firm against mine. 

A car drove by the house, revving its engine as it passed. Bucky’s arm tightened around my waist as he pulled me behind him, using his body to block me from the open doorway. I watched, silently, as he peered out the window, his keen gaze taking in everything happening in the street outside. 

It was fascinating to see his focus sharpen, like a hunter. His eyes looked different. Harder. Gone was my playful breakfast companion. In his place was a skilled operative, a man who’d had to rely on his reflexes and senses for survival. 

I placed a gentle hand on his forearm.

“It’s all right. It’s just that kid from down the block. He likes to drive his dad’s Corvette around.”

Bucky’s arm loosened around my waist. 

“You’re too cautious,” I teased, trying to lighten the mood.

“And you’re not cautious enough,” he replied, looking down and giving me an affectionate smile. 

“I’m working on it.”

He opened the door and stepped out. I looked down the street and didn’t see a car that could have been his. 

“Bye, Margaret,” he said, giving me a smile over his shoulder as he headed down the driveway. 

“Bye,” I replied simply, thinking it best not to use his name out in the open. 

The kid in the Corvette did another pass, engine roaring in the otherwise quiet neighborhood, and by the time I thought to look down the street, Bucky was gone.


	10. A Second Chance

“You look nice,” Bucky said, following her into the kitchen. 

She always looked nice. It had just taken him this long to remember it was something you were supposed to say out loud. 

Her dress was emerald green and the top fit her like a glove, skimming over the contours of her feminine shape. The full skirt flared out when she turned, as though she were always dancing, gliding around the little house. She had her hair piled up on top of her head tonight, exposing the gentle curve of her neck. 

“Thank you,” she said with a smile. “So do you.”

He was positive she was being polite. He looked the same as he always did. Dark shirt, jeans. Practical, casual clothes designed to blend into a crowd and stand up to whatever situation he found himself in. Being around her, how nice she always looked, was starting to make him a little self-conscious about his own appearance. He made sure to shower before he came over, so at least he’d smell okay. But maybe he should get a pair of real pants. Or a haircut.

**********

He came into the kitchen and went to where my iPod was plugged in to my vintage radio. I liked the way my big band music sounded coming out of the old speaker. 

“What are you listening to?”

“Karaoke, actually.”

“Is that a group or a song?” 

I smiled at the man who could speak six languages and didn’t know what karaoke was. 

“Neither. Karaoke is music without any singing. It’s just the background part. You sing the song yourself.”

He took a minute to process this and then looked intrigued.

“Show me.”

“No, I think I’ll let the professionals take over.”

“Please?” he asked softly. 

He gave me a smile that he must have known made it impossible to deny him anything.

“Oh, gosh. Really?” I sighed. “What do you want to hear?”

“You have all the songs?”

“Quite a few.”

He thought for a minute.

“How about something from your favorites list?” 

“Okay.” I scrolled through the playlist, wondering if there was a specific song he wanted. I clicked on one I at least knew all the words to. 

The opening of “At Last” came through the radio speaker. He smiled, immediately recognizing the song, and looked at me expectantly. I put a hand over my face, feeling awkward standing there, wondering if I would actually be able to do this with him right in front of me. Oh, why had I picked the song with the longest introduction in the history of music? 

Without looking up at him, I began to sing. 

I was terribly self-conscious. It was one thing to belt out songs alone in your kitchen, but quite another to do it while someone who mattered to you stood three feet in front of you, staring at your face. I knew my voice was okay, passable karaoke quality, but when he’d only ever heard the Etta James version, my rendering would obviously pale in comparison. I was shooting for just staying on pitch and remembering all the words. 

I made it through the first few phrases and there was complete silence from him. I peeked at him through my hands, expecting wincing and discomfort, but instead he looked… fascinated. It made me feel a little better, made me sing a little louder. 

I got through the first verse and he’d uncrossed his arms and had them propped on the counter behind him. He was leaning forward towards me, listening intently. When I got to the bridge, I was feeling more comfortable. I grabbed a spatula from the counter and held it up like a microphone, which made him grin. I closed my eyes and tried to forget he was there, pretending I was giving a concert and not standing on the vinyl flooring of my little kitchen. 

When I hit the last note, he actually clapped his hands, briefly startling me. 

“That was great,” he remarked, and seemed genuine. “Now that I know you can do that, I’ll want you to sing all the songs.”

I laughed. “I don’t think I know ALL the songs. And I need to finish dinner anyway, so you’ll have to settle for the actual artists.” 

I turned on my 50s streaming station. “Lollipop” came on. Now that I knew Bucky didn’t mind the sound of my voice, I went ahead and softly sang along just like I usually did when I was alone.

“How do you know the words to all these songs?” he asked.

“My dad. I grew up listening to the music he listened to when he was younger, so mostly 50s and 60s. It’s a little bit late for me, I generally prefer the 30s and 40s.”

“But you weren’t even born then.”

“I’m pretty sure I was reincarnated. That would explain a lot.” I stopped chopping onions and looked at him. “Do you believe in that stuff?”

“It’s a nice idea. Getting a second chance.”

He sounded wistful. It broke my heart. The knowledge that his life had basically ended at 26, and that was after he’d already been fighting a war for a year and a half. If anyone deserved a second chance, it was him. 

Chubby Checker’s “Twist” came on and I started to dance while slicing the bell peppers. I heard a sound and turned around to see Bucky smiling at me.

“Don’t stop,” he joked.

“See, you weren’t around for the 50s. Everyone started using their hips when they danced.”

“Show me.” He looked like he was trying to keep his expression neutral and failing.

“All right, but you have to do it with me.”

“I don’t know, it looks dangerous.”

“It is quite addictive.” 

“I think I’m going to need you to demonstrate a few more times,” he deadpanned. 

“Are you getting fresh with me?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

I grinned.

There was a playfulness that had begun to creep into Bucky’s manner. I adored it, both because it was appealing but also because it meant he was getting more comfortable with me. It had been there all along, hidden behind all the damage and the defenses. 

I remembered the look on his face that first night when he’d switched our bowls of chili. All of Hydra’s programming couldn’t erase his natural charm and humor, even when so much of his life had been characterized by desperation and lack of control. 

He looked so natural in my kitchen, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed, pulling his shirt tight against his upper arms. All long legs and muscles, deep chest and narrow waist. Square jaw, gentle smile. 

I wanted to touch him. Any excuse to touch him. 

“Maybe if I help you,” I suggested. Bucky raised an eyebrow. “May I?” 

He nodded and gave me a smile laced with curiosity, standing up straight and putting his arms down at his sides. 

I stepped towards him and gingerly placed my hands on his hips. 

“It’s like this,” I said, swiveling my own hips to show him, and pulling his hips so their movement matched mine. 

He laughed, loud and genuine, holding his arms out at his sides, and doing his best to mimic my dancing. 

“I know it probably feels silly, but this was all the rage in the 60s.” 

“So, we just do this facing each other? Are we supposed to put our hips together?” he asked. 

“No, that’s dirty dancing. That’s something else. That was all the rage in the 80s.”

“That sounds like more fun.”

I smiled up at him, surprised. His flirting usually stopped at innuendo, but that was pretty brazen. Good sign.

As the song wrapped up, I danced my way back to the counter and finished slicing the peppers, tossing them into the pan with the onions. 

“These just need to sauté a few minutes, and then we can eat.” 

On the radio, a guitar strummed the opening to “Are You Lonesome Tonight.”

“How about some 40s dancing?” Bucky asked softly. 

He stepped over to me and took the spatula out of my hand, setting it down on the counter. Then he held out his open palm. I smiled and put mine in his. He gently tugged me towards him, wrapping an arm around my back and pulling me in so I was pressed up against him. Close enough to feel him breathing. 

He seemed more confident this time, more certain. He took my right hand in his metal one, closing the articulated fingers around mine. Not tightly, but possessively. Rather than putting my left hand on his shoulder, I wrapped it around his upper arm and rested my head on his chest. I could feel his heart beating. It was strong and regular, like the drum in a marching band. 

We weren’t really dancing, just holding each other and swaying gently to the music. I could feel my own pulse slow.

He smelled good. A masculine scent. Vaguely woodsy. Not cologne, maybe soap or deodorant. His palm was warm on my back. I could feel the warmth of it through my dress.  


I loved the size of him. The solidness. The strength. 

"Act One was when we met. I loved you at first glance…"

It had been easy to fall in love with Steve. He was every woman’s dream. But there had been something missing between us. It wasn’t just that he would always love another woman. I had learned to accept her ghost. It was that he hadn’t needed me. Not really. I had never been sure of what I could provide for him.

But Bucky was different. Bucky needed something. Part of him was lost, he was still looking for it. Still trying to recover pieces of himself. Build them into something new.  


Even when he’d first come here, his eyes had reflected vulnerability. Initially he’d winced at my touch, but now that he’d begun to heal, I could see that he craved it. Craved human contact, the connection. Like a child who’d been let out of a dark closet. 

I felt him rest his check against my hair, felt him inhale against me. 

This man, who had terrified a city and threatened our best soldiers. Had threatened Steve. Had shot Natasha twice. Steve had told me that. And yet I wasn’t afraid of him. I couldn’t be afraid of him.  


I knew I was being naïve. Like I’d told him before, I wouldn’t stand a chance against him. And maybe that’s why I wasn’t afraid. I wouldn’t need to put up a fight. It wouldn’t matter if I did. 

What did concern me was what it would do to him. If something happened to me because of him. I hated the idea that I could become one more thing for him to feel guilty about. 

My thoughts were interrupted by a popping and sizzling sound that reminded me I had food on the stove.

“Shoot!” 

I pulled back out of his arms and removed the pan from the burner. 

“I think you’re dangerous,” I remarked, referring back to his earlier comment. “I almost let these burn.”

For a moment, I worried that my use of the term dangerous might cast a shadow over the nice time we were having. I was obviously joking, but I knew he still thought of himself that way. 

But he just gave me an innocent smile and leaned back against the counter. 

**********

“So how did you end up here? In DC?” Bucky asked, over a forkful of pork chops.

I’d made the fancy ones, the ones I set on fire. His height had come in handy when I set off the smoke alarm, but he’d been suitably impressed by the fireball created by the bourbon. Apparently cooking en flambe hadn’t caught on in the US until the 60s.

“I found a job here.”

When I failed to provide further information, he raised his eyebrows, waiting for me to continue.

“Do you want the long or the short version?”

“Whatever you feel like telling me.”

It wasn’t that I minded sharing, it was just that I couldn’t see how it could possibly be interesting to him.

“I got a degree in child development and after college I went to work for the Air Force. I did a year of training in Texas and then got a job in Virginia working on an Air Force base. I lived there for a few years, and then I moved to Hawaii where I went to law school.”

“How did you end up going to school in Hawaii?”

“I got married to a guy who was stationed there.”

This made him pause a moment. I could tell he was wondering what had happened to my husband. Whether it was something bad, whether it might be upsetting for me to talk about it. 

“I didn’t know you were married,” he said, leaving it up to me as to whether I wanted to elaborate. 

“Yes, once. And engaged once. The fiancé had issues with anger management and broke up with me when I was in Virginia.” 

I noticed at my mention of “anger management” Bucky’s jaw clenched, and his hand tightened around his fork.

“After I’d been in Virginia for a few years I met an Air Force officer and we got married just before he was sent to Hawaii. Our third year there he began having issues with depression and… left. So, I decided to look for a job in DC because I had family here and liked the area.” 

I looked down at my plate, wondering if that had been more information than he’d wanted. 

“I guess the moral of the story is I drive men crazy.”

I forced a smile and took a drink of wine. 

“Or that you’re attracted to the mentally unstable,” he remarked with a grin. “Which bodes well for me.”

I laughed, genuinely this time. His smile was just devastating. I was lucky he had no idea how handsome he was. 

“So, what job did you do for the Air Force before law school?”

“I ran a child development center on the base.” His brow furrowed. “We took care of the children of military members while they were at work.” 

He nodded in understanding and took another bite of food.

“Do you want children?” he asked.

**********

Maybe it was a bad question. A stupid question. A strange question for him to ask. He hoped she understood he’d meant it in general, he wasn’t asking to father her children. 

Like with everything, she didn’t give him a hard time, she just answered his question.

“I did. But a lot of things have changed since I made those plans.” 

It made sense she’d worked with children. Had wanted children. She seemed like someone who would be good with kids. 

She took a bite, swallowed. “What about you?”

He didn’t even begin to know how to answer her. Like so many things, there was the before, and the after. How he’d always hoped his life would turn out, and the reality. 

The reality was he was holding his life together with both hands, and the idea of bringing a child into the world for whom he was responsible seemed incredibly reckless.  


If there ever was a man who would be giving hostages to fortune, it was him. It was the same reason he was trying so hard not to get close to her. He was failing, but he was still trying. 

And all of that was completely beside the fact he had no idea if whatever poison Hydra had pumped into his veins all those years ago would mess up whatever children he might have. Or make fathering a child impossible. 

He blew out a long breath. 

“I don’t know. If I ever felt like it could be safe.” Another thought occurred to him. “Then again, I’ve probably missed the window. I am a hundred and one.”

She choked rather spectacularly on her wine and came up laughing.

“You’d probably set some sort of record. That alone might be reason enough to try it.”

She smiled at him, and for the countless time while in her company he had no idea what it meant. But several of the possibilities it presented warmed his chest.  


Something occurred to him.

“When did you move to DC? From Hawaii?”

“Um, 2009. I used to work in Rosslyn, but our office moved to Andrews a few years ago.”

He stopped chewing and put down his fork.

“So, you were in Rosslyn during…” 

He didn’t know what to call it. During that living nightmare where he'd terrorized the city, tried to kill his best friend, and murdered innocent civilians. 

She seemed to know what he was talking about.

“Yes.” She said. She looked at him carefully. “I was in an office building across the river from Roosevelt Island. We saw the helicarriers out the window. They evacuated us.”

Evacuated. He’d seen footage of it later. It had been chaos in the streets. People pouring out of buildings, trying to escape the falling debris from fiery mountains of metal. 

But the true horror was that if Steve hadn’t been able to disarm the helicarriers, she could easily have been on that list of targets. Steve must have known that too. And Bucky had been fighting and killing to make it happen. 

She seemed to know what he was thinking. She reached across the table and took his hand.

“That was a long time ago. You’ve saved my life a few times since then.”

Always letting him off the hook. 

**********

She remembered seeing shaky cellphone footage of the Winter Soldier on the news. Black hair, black leather, black mask, black eyes. And with the lethal efficiency of the Terminator. He’d barely looked human. 

She tried to square that image with the soft spoken, gentle eyed man sitting across from her and couldn’t do it. 

**********

There was a knock at the door. I might not have heard it, but it was a quiet part of the movie. Gene Kelly was bidding good night to Debbie Reynolds, just before performing the titular song to “Singing in the Rain.”

Bucky was immediately on alert. His whole body stiffened, like an animal sensing danger. A knife appeared in his hand, as if by magic. His metal arm clutched the armrest, bracing himself to strike. Even his face changed, like when the Corvette had roared by last week. 

I gently rested a hand on his thigh. 

“I’m sure it’s nothing. Let me check.”

I paused the movie and glanced at the clock. It was just before nine o’clock, not a completely unreasonable time for people to be out and about. 

I went to the door and looked through the peephole. A young man stood on the front step. Bucky followed me like a shadow, keeping the knife in his hand pointed at the ground. 

I pulled it open. Bucky stayed out of sight, but within arm’s reach if I needed help.

“Hello,” I said. 

“Hi,” he said politely. “I’m selling candy bars to raise money for our band trip. They’re a dollar each. Would you like some?”

“Sure, just let me get my wallet,” I replied. I left him standing on the front step while I went over to the end table and grabbed my purse. I handed him a five dollar bill and he gave me five candy bars.

“Thanks,” he said. 

“No problem. Good luck!” I said as I shut the door. I clicked the deadbolt and looked over at Bucky, who didn’t appear to have moved since I’d opened the door. 

“Candy bar?” I offered, holding one out to him. He didn’t reply. “Do you want to get back to the movie?” I asked, setting my purse back down on the table. 

“Did you know him?” he asked softly.

“What?”

“Did you KNOW HIM,” he enunciated more clearly.

“The kid selling candy? No.”

“Then why did you open the door?”

“Because he had candy,” I joked. Apparently, that was not the right answer.

“You live alone. You shouldn’t be opening the door at night to someone you don’t know.” 

“He seemed pretty harmless.”

“He was half a foot taller than you. And who knows what he had in that box.”

“Chocolate?”

He stuck the knife back in his ankle holster. “But you didn’t know that.”

********** 

And then you left him standing at the open door while you went into your house. He could have come in, locked the door behind him, and done whatever he wanted to you without anyone knowing you were here.

Bucky’s mind raced as he thought about all the things that made her so very vulnerable to any kind of attack. Even without the additional danger of her connection to him. 

Her sweet naivete, her painfully regular schedule. The fact she lived alone. Drove a distinctive car. Took the same route to work and home every day at the same time. Left her curtains open. Her routine and isolated existence made her the perfect target. 

The fact that she hadn’t yet been the victim of an attack suddenly seemed miraculous to him. He needed to teach her how to be tactical. How to think like an assailant. Something he knew inside and out, having spent years as an assailant. 

“You could teach me how to throw a punch,” she remarked.

“What?”

“Shouldn’t I learn how to defend myself?”

He knew she meant it playfully, just joking around. She still wasn’t taking this seriously. Or maybe she really wanted a few pointers. But looking down at her, picturing her trying to fight her way out of any possible scenario where force would be necessary, made him physically ill. 

“If you ever think you might be in trouble, you call me. And if I can’t get there fast enough, forget punching. Women’s arms aren’t very strong. You kick, claw, scratch, bite, pull hair. You do anything you need to do.”

Women also had natural reservations about hurting people, which was part of what made them such good targets. And, knowing her, she would have a lot of trouble with something like that. She was so compassionate, so soft. 

Even when she should realize she was in danger. 

She was never really afraid of you. That’s what Steve had told him. But she should have been afraid of him. He could have killed her. Especially back then.  


She looked at him, compassion in her eyes, and he made himself take a breath. 

“I worry about you,” he said, trying to explain. 

“I know,” she said. “Tell me what to do so you won’t worry so much.”

“Close your curtains at night. Don’t open the door to people you don’t know. Try changing up your route to work. Go in a little sooner or a little later. Pay attention to cars behind you, people around you. Anyone getting too close.”

“Okay,” she said. 

He got the impression that she thought he was being paranoid, but that she might do what he asked because he asked her to. That was nice, but he was still going to worry. Maybe that was the cost of being with her.

It was worth it. 

But then her look changed to one of confusion.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. 

“How did you know I left my blinds open? I always close them when you’re here.”

Shit. 

“Have you been checking up on me?”

He was lucky she was willing to use the most generous definition of what he’d been doing. He’d bet most girls wouldn’t take so kindly to the news they were being stalked. He justified it to himself that it wasn’t spying, it was protecting. Knowing how reckless she was with her own safety, it was his duty to make sure that she was safe. It was something he could do for her in return for everything she did for him. 

“You know, if you’re in the neighborhood and want to make sure I’m safe, you could just come over.”

He’d thought about it. Every time. 

Thought about knocking on her door, entering her cozy world of gentle music, low lights, soft skin. 

But the truth was he was still learning to be around people. To have a normal relationship. Part of him still felt safer as an observer. He was frightened at how close he’d gotten to her so quickly and wanted to maintain a little distance. 

He would ride his motorcycle, parking it a few blocks away, always in a different spot. Shortcut through backyards, never the same route. Stand across the street, down the block, in the backyard.  


And watch her. 

There was something so comforting about seeing her go through her evening routine. Fixing dinner in the little kitchen. There was always music. Sometimes he was close enough to hear it. Sometimes she would sing along. She had a nice voice.

She’d glance down at her phone, something would make her laugh. She’d wander into her bedroom. Change out of her work clothes. He never watched that. She did close her bedroom blinds, at least. He was glad. And he wouldn’t have watched even if he’d been able. This was not about violating her privacy. This was about keeping her safe. 

She ate dinner on a tray in front of her TV. He could see the flickering light on her face. He wondered what she was watching. Sometimes it made her laugh. Once it made her cry. She seemed much less alone in her house than he was in his. There was always music, or voices on the TV. She was always reacting to something. 

Until bedtime. Then she would lay in bed, under the soft glow of her bedside table lamp, and read a book. His vision wasn’t good enough to see what she was reading. He was sure she would tell him if he asked. He was curious about it, just like he was curious about everything with her. 

He didn’t watch her every night. Sometimes he wasn’t around. But a few times a week he’d find himself in her neighborhood, knowing full well he was going to be there for an hour or two.  


Sometimes he felt guilty about doing it. Especially because it was a secret he was keeping from her. But he reassured himself that it was for her protection. 

He’d been called the world’s most dangerous assassin. He should be able to keep one person safe.


	11. Maybe This Time...

When I’d picked “Singin’ in the Rain” for the movie of the evening, I hadn’t realized how ideal my choice would be. I thought Bucky might enjoy the music and dancing. Musicals had been popular in the 1930s, so the style of the movie would be familiar. I was worried he might get bored during the long dance sequence with Cyd Charisse, but when I looked over at him, he seemed fully absorbed in the movie. 

He got more of the jokes than I did. Several times I heard him chuckle to himself, and twice that he laughed out loud. He seemed to especially like the scene where Lina Lamont was having trouble recording her sound and they had to keep putting the microphone in different places. 

The incident with the kid selling candy had put Bucky on edge, but when we sat back down to restart the movie, he immediately took my hand in his. He seemed to really like holding hands. I wondered whether he’d like to put his arm around my shoulder. Maybe next time we watched a movie I’d suggest it. 

Even though we’d been seeing each other for a while, he still seemed very careful about being physical with me. I wasn’t sure how much of it was residue from being a gentleman of a different era, and how much was fear he’d hurt me. 

“So, what did you think?” I asked, switching off the television as the final frame faded to black.

“I liked it,” he said, still holding my hand in his. “You know, I saw the Jazz Singer.”

“You did?”

“Everybody did. At least, everybody I knew. It was amazing. I was ten. I remember seeing it with my parents. We were lucky. Because we lived in New York we got to hear it with sound. Most theaters showed it as a silent picture.”

I knew in my head how old Bucky was, how long he’d been around, but every once in a while he’d say something that would remind me. Like the fact that he’d seen the Jazz Singer. In 1927. 

“I should probably go,” he said, not making any move to leave. Still holding my hand.

“Or, you could stay,” I said. I tried to watch his face. He looked down at our hands, and then back up at me. 

“Thank you, but I shouldn’t.”

“Okay.” I made no attempt to hide my disappointment.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he said, turning his body fully to face me. “But it’s safer if I don’t.”

I’d heard that before. A lot. I’d been through this. I didn’t want to do that again. But Bucky wasn’t Steve. Maybe this time it would end differently.

“I could persuade you.” I gave him my best alluring smile, trying to let him decide if I was joking. Letting it be okay either way.

“Now who’s dangerous?” he teased, standing up. Apparently deciding I was joking. This time I tried harder to conceal my disappointment. 

He held out his hand and pulled me up off the couch. 

“Do you want some leftovers?”

“Always.”

As I filled a Tupperware with leftover pork chops, I felt a sense of déjà vu. How many times had I bundled up leftovers after dinner and a movie and sent someone out into the night? 

I thought about how much Bucky had seen in his lifetime. How many places he’d been, how much he’d experienced. I wondered if he got déjà vu too when he came over here. 

He was waiting by the front door in his jacket when I came out of the kitchen. 

“Did you enjoy your evening?” I asked, immediately regretting sounding like a comment card.

He smiled. “I always enjoy spending time with you.”

“I meant, I mean, we do the same thing every time you come here. Are you getting bored of it?”

“I can assure you, whatever feelings I have about being here, I am never bored.”

What a delightfully cryptic answer.

“Are you getting bored?” He asked. “I know as a proper boyfriend I should take you out, but-”

“It’s okay, I know why you don’t.” A warmth spread through me at his use of the word “boyfriend.” “I’m happy to stay here if you are.”

“Good. I enjoy coming here. And compared to goat farming in Wakanda, evenings with you are much more, um, stimulating.”

The light was dim, but I could swear he blushed.

I held out the bag with the food and he took it in his real hand. 

“So, do you have plans for Christmas?” I asked casually, pulling the door open for him. 

I’d been thinking a lot about whether to bring it up. Whether it would seem too serious. Whether Christmas was even something he had any interest in celebrating. I decided to go for it. 

“What?” He looked confused at my sudden change of subject.

“You know, Christmas. Santa Claus. Candy canes. Stockings hung by the chimney with care. I’m pretty sure it predates even you,” I joked. 

“Oh, no. I mean, I can’t remember the last time I celebrated Christmas.”

**********

It was almost true. He had a vague memory of a turkey dinner somewhere in the freezing French woods. A few Christmas carols between the shelling. It hadn’t been very jolly. 

There were more distant memories, of course. Being a kid and getting an erector set, a pop gun, some new clothes. But that stuff was for children. He couldn’t imagine what Margaret meant by “plans for Christmas.”

“Why don’t you come over? We can have dinner. Maybe Santa will leave you something.” 

She had a twinkle in her eye that concerned him. He loved that she got excited about things, but it always made him worry about disappointing her. 

“Don’t you have plans with your family?” 

“My brother and sister like their families to celebrate Christmas at home, so we’re all getting together afterwards.”

She said it quickly, as though she hoped he wouldn’t notice that it affected her. But he knew her well enough now to see that it did. Or maybe she was trying to convince herself it was fine. 

He thought about how she’d said she had wanted children. Maybe the invitation wasn’t just for him. 

“I’d love to come,” he said. And then added “I will do my best to be there.”

He looked down at her, into her sweet, trusting face. She suddenly looked very small. Vulnerable. He thought about that kid with the box. If it had been something besides chocolate in it. A rope, a knife. A gun. 

Bucky reached down and gathered her into his arms. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the smell of her hair. Savoring it, memorizing it. Remembering the shirt she’d given him, back at his apartment, that still bore the faintest trace of her scent. 

She hugged him back, tightly, fiercely, using all of the strength in her weak, ineffectual arms.

He looked down at her.

“Don’t open the door for anyone you don’t know,” he said.

“I won’t,” she replied solemnly.

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

He watched her lips form the word “promise.” The word almost looking like a kiss. Remembering how those lips had felt on his that night he’d danced with her. Remembering how her body had felt against his. Her softness and warmth, everywhere against him. He wanted that. He wanted her. 

He brought his lips down on hers, still holding her tightly, as though he could instill in her whatever miracle elixir had kept his blood flowing in that icy ravine. The drug that had brought him back from the edge of death all of those times that should have meant his end. 

Bucky tried to be so careful about starting anything physical with her, knowing how difficult it was for him to stop. His willpower and control were phenomenal in every arena except for her. That had not been part of his training. Apparently, falling for someone was not a problem Hydra believed the Winter Soldier might have. Nor had Bucky believed it himself, at least not for a very long time. Not since his thoughts had once again become his own. 

He planted his hand on the door behind her, propping himself up and trying to keep himself from crushing her against the heavy wood. She grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and pulled him towards her, keeping him pressed against her pliant form. 

**********

I kissed him as though I could keep him there. Could persuade him, as I’d suggested earlier. For a few moments it seemed to be working. He stepped towards me, pushing me up against the open door. I pulled him closer still, wanting to feel him crush me against the wood, wanting to feel his big body pressing all along every inch of mine. 

Bucky kissed me with an intensity that even Steve had never shown. I didn’t think it was deliberate, as some sort of technique. It was raw, desperate. As though he couldn’t get close enough. Couldn’t get ENOUGH. 

He made a frustrated sound and pushed against the door, stepping back away from me. Cold air rushed in where his body had been. 

“You make a convincing argument for staying,” he joked, looking down at me. “And if it were anything but your safety, nothing could drag me away. But I really should go. While I still can.”

“How about the next time you come over, we plan to do some research.” I gave him a hopeful look. 

He grinned. 

“That sounds like a good plan.”

This time when he left, I made a concerted effort to see where he went. I watched him head down the block and cross the street. He passed under some trees and disappeared into thin air. It was incredible. It was obviously a trick of the darkness, combined with his black clothes. But it seemed otherworldly the way he vanished. 

I closed and bolted the door, trying to prepare myself for the fact that I would probably lose him. Like Steve. For my own good. I could feel him being pulled in that direction. 

I had spent a long time questioning what I could have said to Steve to convince him to stay. I’d driven myself a little crazy over it. In the end, probably nothing. Once he got an idea in his head, it was hard to derail him. That sharp focus helped to make him a good leader, but it also made him really stubborn. Once he’d decided it was too dangerous for us to be together, that was it. 

Bucky at least was more open about things with me than Steve had been. Or maybe I was just paying closer attention this time. 

Maybe I could convince Bucky it was worth it to me to have him in my life. Convince him to let me make my own decision about what I was willing to risk. 

Maybe this time, it would be different. 

**********

Bucky parked his motorcycle under a maple tree that blocked the glow of the streetlight. He vaulted off and stalked down the narrow lane, cutting through half a dozen backyards until he reached one of his usual spots. 

The shades were down. 

A sliver of light leaked out on either side, not enough to make out what was happening behind them.

His reflexive feeling was disappointment. He’d lost his little window into her world. But the overriding sense was relief. Her safety was the most important thing. 

And it was proof that she’d listened to him and believed his warnings. Or at least cared enough about him to do what he’d asked. That thought brought a smile to his face.

He did a quick circuit of the neighborhood, looking for anything that might signal danger. Finding nothing suspect, he made a last trip past her house, checking the front windows this time, which were likewise shuttered. The flickering light on the sides meant she was probably watching something on TV. He wondered what it was.

He could find out.

He could go up and knock on her door right now. She would let him in. She would give him that smile that lit her whole face. He could sit next to her on the couch. Hold her hand. Talk to her. Share her evening. 

He could do those things. He’d been invited. So why couldn’t he bring himself to knock on the door?

He knew why. 

He’d limited himself to coming over here only when he was specifically invited. When he was expected. When he would be missed. When he knew he would disappoint her by not showing up. If he started seeing her whenever he felt like it, whenever he wanted to see her, he’d be here all the time. It would be impossible to keep her a secret. 

She was like a drug, a drug that seduced him the more he used it. A drug that would only end up hurting her. He would not allow himself to be responsible for anything bad happening to her. Not this time. 

He cast one last look up at the flickering light behind the shades and headed back to his motorcycle.

The longer he was with her, the less worried he was that he would hurt her, but the more worried he became that someone else would. Standing outside her window, the same way he’d stalked and surveilled dozens of targets, just made him realize how easy it would be. The things he had recommended to her would help, but as long as she was with him, she would never truly be safe. Steve must have known the same truth.

Bucky went home and tossed his jacket on a chair. Headed for his bedroom. Pulled the iPod off his nightstand and stuck the earbuds in. Started it from where he’d left it the last time he’d listened. 

“… my darling, I’ve hungered for your touch a long, lonely time…”

He let the music wash over him, knowing that there would probably come a time when it was all he had left of her in his life, but refusing to let that day be today.


	12. Light in Weight, Heavy with Significance

There was a wreath on her door. Simple greenery, with a big red bow. He stared at it as a sudden memory overtook him. Unwanted, as they always were. Another wreath, another door, another Christmas. A long time ago, in another country. It could have been another planet, as distant as it seemed to him now. Another life. 

The gun was in his hand. He screwed on the silencer. He knew this one wouldn’t be difficult. It was Christmas. They wouldn’t be expecting danger. That was why Hydra liked it. 

He remembered two shots to the head. The man and his wife. He couldn’t remember who the man was. He might not have been told. The wife had been collateral damage. It had been easy. 

They’d been on the couch in front of a decorated tree. A fireplace. Everything looking like a Christmas card except for the holes in their foreheads and the trails of blood down their faces. Eyes staring, sightless. He’d shot the dog on the way out. 

The door opened, startling him. She smiled brightly.

“I thought I saw you standing out here. I wasn’t sure if you wanted to come in. I thought maybe I hadn’t heard you knock, you’re so quiet sometimes.”

Her smile changed to a look of concern.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He couldn’t imagine what look he must have on his face.

“Nothing,” he replied, trying to summon a smile. Not wanting to bring that violence and horror into this place.

As he stepped up into the house she asked if she could take his coat, like always. He took it off and gave it to her, deciding to leave the small box in the pocket. He could get it later.

She had Christmas music on the record player. He recognized the voice. Bing Crosby. The place smelled like spices and pine trees. Onions. Sage. Pie crust. Some things he couldn’t identify but recognized as familiar. 

She returned from hanging up his coat, and he looked at her. He liked looking at her. She had on another pretty dress, red and green plaid. He especially liked looking at her face because she always seemed genuinely happy to have him there. 

Tonight, she also seemed excited. He could feel it vibrating from her. As though she had a secret she couldn’t wait to tell. He felt himself relax. Felt himself slide into something familiar. A familiar memory, or an echo of one. 

He was determined to banish all thoughts of brutality and death from his mind while he was here. While he was spending precious time with her. Whatever she had planned, he didn’t want to ruin it for her. 

“You look especially dashing this evening,” she remarked. He felt an unexpected surge of pride. 

He had bought real pants and a shirt. The shirt was dark green. She seemed to like green, and it matched her eyes. He hadn’t been sure if she would notice his clothes, but he did feel better about his appearance. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cared about what he looked like or what he’d worn, other than to avoid standing out and make sure it didn’t get in his way. It felt kind of nice to care about something like that again. 

There was a little Christmas tree on an end table. He had to look closely to see that it wasn’t real. It had little ornaments on it, wooden clothespins decorated to look like dolls.

“They’re characters from the Nutcracker Ballet,” she explained when she noticed him looking at it. “I was in ballet when I was little.”

It made sense she’d taken ballet. She always seemed so graceful. 

“I quit when I was 16.”

“How come?” 

“I got too big for it.” 

He almost laughed, thinking she was joking, but then he saw her face. She looked embarrassed. Bucky was perplexed. He’d bet his house, if he had one, that she was under five and a half feet. How could she be too big for something? The subject seemed to make her uncomfortable, so he didn’t press the issue any further. 

“Would you like to keep me company while I finish in the kitchen?” she asked, her smile having returned to its usual place. 

“Sure,” he replied. 

“I have to warn you, it’s a bit of a disaster area,” she remarked as they passed through the swinging door.

The dining room and living room had been softly lit, but under the bright fluorescent lights of the kitchen he could see she had a small smudge of flour on her cheek. He smiled at her affectionately.  


He knew she tried to make things nice for him. Tablecloth, candlesticks, placemats and matching china. But he also liked that she let him see behind the curtain. Like the messy kitchen. It was the imperfections that made her so lovely. Made her real. 

Bucky took in the counter laden with dishes, the pots and pans soaking in the sink. Ingredients still open on the counter. 

And food. So much food.

Sweet potatoes with marshmallows, green beans with something brown sprinkled on top, mashed potatoes and gravy, something dark red he didn’t recognize, a pumpkin pie, a casserole, and what appeared to be a small turkey.

“How many people are you expecting?” he joked.

“I may have overdone it,” she admitted. “But at least you’ll be eating leftovers into the new year.”

“I can’t imagine what your grocery shopping trips must look like.”

“I should bring you with me,” she remarked. “I bet you’re really good at carrying big bags of groceries.”

An image flashed in his mind, the two of them wandering the aisles at his neighborhood market, her laughing and answering his questions about what all the boxes and jars contained. He suddenly wanted it so much it hurt. To share something so mundane with her. Like a real relationship. He didn’t need an exotic location, just a trip to the grocery store. And yet, he still didn’t feel he could risk it, going out in public. He needed to make the most of the time he had here, with her. Where they were safe.

“What can I do to help?”

Without thinking, he unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He looked down at the metal arm, glinting in the overhead lights. He started to pull the sleeve back down. But then he looked at her, bustling around the kitchen, humming along with the Christmas music. Getting a meal ready to share with him. 

He wanted to trust her, to take her at her word when she said it didn’t bother her. He decided to leave the sleeve up. 

“I think I’ve got it under control, despite appearances. I’m just waiting for the rolls to come out of the oven.” She paused, looking around at the food. “I should have thought to ask you if there were any traditional dishes your family had for Christmas.”

“Oyster stew,” he replied. “But I didn’t like it. This all looks much better.”

She smiled. “I’m glad. Can I get you a Tom and Jerry?”

“The drink?” he asked, surprised. He hadn’t seen anyone make or even heard mention of Tom and Jerrys in a long time. 

“Yes. My aunt used to make them at Christmas. It’s got alcohol in it,” she warned.

“I’m over nineteen,” he joked.

“They changed the age to twenty-one, you know.”

“Fortunately, I’m well over that too.”

He leaned against the counter, watching as she went about assembling his drink. She put a few spoonfuls of something white and frothy in a cup. Then she added a shot of rum, a shot of brandy, and some warm milk. She reached up into a cabinet, going up on her tiptoes, and gave a gleeful “Aha!” as she pulled out a shaker of cinnamon, sprinkling a dash on top. He grinned as she handed it to him with a flourish.

“Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

She looked at him expectantly as he tasted it. 

“It’s very good,” he remarked. She looked pleased and went about making one for herself. 

Being with her made him notice things about the world outside of here. He was learning that the things about her that seemed normal to him, the record player, the fancy clothes, the homemade dinners, made her peculiar in her own time. 

Sometimes being with her was so close to the fantasy life he had dreamed of living when he was younger that it frightened him. No one could have imagined that the Winter Soldier spent so much time being afraid. 

In some ways, it had been much easier when he’d been brainwashed. There had been no fear. Not until things started to crack. And those cracks had led to his freedom. But now he was free to love things and to lose them. And the more his feelings for her grew, the more he feared, and the more pain her loss would cause. 

He felt as though he were being set up for some terrible tragedy. As though she had been given to him only so he could lose her and experience the same pain he had caused so many people. 

He took another sip of the drink. The rum and brandy warmed him from the inside. He watched as she took a sip of her own drink, leaving a bit of froth on her lip. He stepped forward, wiping it gently with his thumb, and before he could react, she took his hand and brought it to her mouth, licking the foam off his finger. Her eyes dancing as her pink tongue swiped his thumb.

It was over in a moment, too soon, and she surrendered his hand and went back to her cooking. But the feeling it caused lingered in his groin. At least the dress pants left more room than his jeans.

She appealed to every part of him. The dark and the light. 

God, no matter how this ended, it was going to hurt. He bent some of his phenomenal willpower to simply being in the moment with her, enjoying her company. 

Knowing it was probably too good to last.

**********

“What did you say was on these green beans?”

“Fried onions.”

“I don’t think I want to eat them any other way,” he remarked, forking some up and munching contentedly. 

I smiled. It was moments like this that made me just melt. That reminded me I wasn’t feeding a deadly Russian assassin, but a young, 1940s G.I. 

When preparing for this evening, I hadn’t been sure what to serve him for dinner. Most families had a traditional Christmas meal, but it varied widely. I went with a Thanksgiving-type dinner. Bucky and I hadn’t been together on Thanksgiving, but I highly doubted he’d been somewhere eating turkey and stuffing. 

I also wasn’t sure how far to go down Bucky’s memory lane. I liked the idea of having some elements he might remember from Christmases in his own past. I’d thought about getting Christmas crackers with the paper crowns. You could still get them, and I knew they had been popular in the 20s and 30s. But I didn’t want to be too precious about the whole thing. 

Bucky seemed particularly indulgent with me but sitting across from me eating dinner in a paper crown might be a bridge too far, even for him. I didn’t want him to think I was forcing him into some kind of creepy reenactment of his childhood. I decided to just go with the old Christmas music I enjoyed myself. 

“Did you have a favorite Christmas present, growing up?” I asked. 

“I did. It was a kerosene lantern that projected pictures on the wall.” 

**********

Bucky smiled, surprised at how clear the memory was of opening that particular gift. 

“My father thought it was useless and complained about the cost of the slides to store the pictures. He said it wasn’t a ‘toy for boys.’ But my mom got it for me anyway.” 

His mom had been a gem. 

“So, you’ve always had an interest in technology?” she asked.

He frowned, not quite sure what had prompted her remark. 

“I have some familiarity with technology, but it’s fairly limited in scope.”

Now she looked confused. 

“I know how to use a lot of weapons,” he explained. “But having an aptitude for something doesn’t necessarily mean an interest.” 

Bucky knew what he had an aptitude for. He just wished it were something he enjoyed. 

“No, I’m sorry,” she explained. “I mean, you seem to have an interest in developments in technology and how things work. There’s a program I thought you might like called ‘How It’s Made.’ It shows you how everyday objects are manufactured. I’m not sure how much time you have for television, but I thought you might enjoy watching it. We can watch it here if you want.”

He looked at her, trying to absorb what she had said. Fit it into the picture he had of himself. Who he was now. It was becoming clear that she didn’t see him the way everyone else did. She didn’t see him as a soldier. A weapon. A threat. At some point even he’d begun to see himself that way. But not her. 

She simply saw him as a person with an interest in technology.

“I like microwaves,” he heard himself say, sounding like an idiot. 

He studied her face for any trace of ridicule but saw none. He decided he trusted her not to laugh at him. Maybe she would even understand.

“They’re one of the few things that fit with the future I imagined,” he continued. 

“It is a disappointment, I think we were all hoping for jetpacks and flying cars by now,” she replied. Her tone held no sarcasm, just slight wistfulness.

So, she did understand. 

“What did you want to be, before all of this?” she asked.

“I don’t know, but it wasn’t a soldier.” What had she done, put truth serum in the gravy? “Steve did.”

**********

There was guilt in his voice. 

“There’s no shame in wanting a normal life, Bucky. Wanting to be safe.”

“Being a soldier is how I keep people safe,” he said quietly. “What about you? Did you have a favorite Christmas present?” he asked, in a clear bid to change the subject. I let him.

Then I considered his question and laughed.

“I did, but it will probably seem silly to you.”

“Try me.”

“Okay. Well, when I was little, there were these dolls named after fruit desserts. Strawberry Shortcake, Apple Dumpling, like that. I had a bunch of them. And there was this beautiful dollhouse where everything was made out of strawberries.”

Bucky looked confused. 

“Sorry, not actual strawberries, plastic made to look like strawberries.”

“Oh.”

“It came with all this little dollhouse furniture, a little strawberry couch, and a little strawberry oven. I loved those little dolls and I wanted it so much, but it was very expensive, and I didn’t think I’d get it. But sure enough, on Christmas when I was seven, I came down the stairs and there it was, under the tree. I was so happy. I loved that dollhouse. All of my friends brought their dolls over and we all played with it. My doll was the hostess and she would have parties for my friends’ dolls.” 

He smiled as though he were actually interested in hearing me talk about playing with dolls. It made me wish I had gotten some cool high-tech gift I could tell him about. But the truth was, most of my favorite Christmas presents had been pretty traditional.

“I also got a lot of sports equipment for Christmas. Water skis, a bike, stuff like that. But sadly, because I lived in Minnesota, I had to wait six months for things to warm up enough to try them out.”

“Did you like sports, growing up?” he asked.

“I did. I liked skiing, tennis. I played baseball on my brother’s team with the boys since there was no girls’ team. I was a bit of a tomboy.” I smiled. “I guess I’m overcompensating for that now.”

**********

Bucky looked at her across the table, perfect in her swishy dress, soft brown waves of hair in place, and tried to picture her as a little girl, muddy from a baseball game. Playing stickball with him and his buddies in a back alley in Brooklyn. He loved the idea of that just as much as he loved her with her strawberry house.

Of course, she had loved a dollhouse. Even as a child she’d enjoyed playing hostess, making things nice, taking care of people. 

“So, what would you like to do?” she asked, gathering up their plates. “We could watch a movie, or listen to some music, or…”

The excitement was back. Bubbling up from her like soda pop. He smiled.

“What would you like to do?” he asked. 

“I have something for you. Let me get it.” She practically skipped off to her bedroom. 

**********

While I had been unsure of what to serve for dinner, I was certain of what I wanted to give Bucky for Christmas. It was something I’d felt uneasy about having anyway. He was the perfect person to hold onto it. 

I got the gift bag from where I’d left it on my bed and came back into the living room, taking a seat on the couch. I patted the cushion next to me and he sat down. 

“I know it’s more traditional to wrap up a box, but I thought with this you’d have a way to carry it home.” 

The bag was green and blue plaid. I’d tried to get something suitably masculine, yet festive. Bucky smiled and looked at it, taking in the tissue paper sticking out the top. He even looked at the little paper card attached to the handle, which read “To: Bucky, From: Margaret.” Not “Love.” I didn’t think we were there yet. 

He gently removed the tissue paper at the top, looking at it, perhaps to make sure there wasn’t a gift tucked inside. 

“That’s just for decoration,” I explained. 

He nodded and reached down further into the bag, pulling out a jar of Nutella.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d gotten a chance to try this yet. It’s chocolate hazelnut spread. Mostly chocolate.”

He studied the jar carefully. “How do you eat it?”

“If you’re me, with a spoon,” I joked. “If you’re normal people, you spread it on something. Crackers, bread, pizza, whatever.” He laughed at that. “I recommend starting with it on Ritz crackers. That way you get the salty with the sweet.”

“Thank you,” he said, still looking at the jar. “I look forward to trying this.” 

I almost asked if he wanted me to get some crackers to try it right then, but I really wanted him to see the other gifts. 

“There’s more,” I said. “In the bag.”

Raising an eyebrow at me, he set the Nutella aside and reached his hand back in. 

**********

Bucky pulled out something soft and held it in his hands. It was a knit cap in a rich, dark blue and so soft. He liked the feel of it in his hand. He fought back the urge to rub it on his cheek. To bring it to his nose and see if it smelled like her. That faint floral scent he could only detect when he was very close to her. He could do that later. 

Because of the beating his mind had taken, he cherished memories the way most people cherished things. And smell was the strongest elicitor of memory. When he was alone in his apartment, he liked to smell something of hers. Listen to her music. Think about what her skin felt like against his. 

As he looked more closely, his keen eyes picked up that some of the stitches were sweetly uneven. 

“Did you make this?” he asked, after studying it a moment. 

“I did.” 

He rubbed his thumb over the band, still enjoying the feel of the soft thread. He imagined her sitting on the couch, her delicate fingers weaving the soft thread into something for him. It meant more to him because she’d made it herself. 

**********

Of course, he could tell I made it. 

I felt my cheeks redden, remembering the rows of stitches I’d pulled out because they weren’t all even. I’d never been a prolific knitter, but I liked the idea of making something to help keep him warm in the occasionally harsh DC winter. I’d used the softest blue yarn I could find. 

“I love it,” he said, looking up at me. Just hearing him say the word “love,” even about a hat I’d knitted, made my heart beat a little faster.

“Thanks. I wasn’t sure what color to make. I actually tried to find old pictures of you and figure out what color you liked, but all the photos were in black and white.” 

He laughed. “You could have just asked me.”

“But then it wouldn’t have been a surprise.”

“Well, you guessed right. I would have said blue,” he said, fingering the cap. “It’s been blue since I was a kid. For the Brooklyn Dodgers.”

“I thought about making you a scarf, but I’ve never seen you wear one.”

“I don’t wear scarves. I don’t like the feeling of anything on my face. Anymore.” He said it quietly, but there was something about his tone.

An image appeared in my head. A fuzzy image, from a shaky phone camera. A man in black, stalking down the street holding a gun. Black clothes, black hair, black eyes. 

Black mask.

My heart broke for him.

As though he could feel it, he coughed and fumbled with the cap. 

“Thank you, for the gifts. That was very thoughtful.”

“There’s one more thing,” I said. The cap had been fun to make, but it wasn’t the big surprise. 

He frowned and reached back into the bag. I understood his confusion. It probably felt like the bag was empty. The last gift was small, light. But heavy with significance.

“Are you sure…” he started, and then his hand must have touched it. Closed around it. 

He seemed to know what it was. I saw it on his face. Watched him pull it out.

The thin metal chain was old. Tarnished. As old as the two well worn pieces of metal hanging from it. The letters had been stamped into the steel eight decades ago. But he didn’t need to see the name on it to know what it was. Whose it had been.

“How did you get these?” he asked, clutching the dog tags in his hand. He seemed almost afraid to look at them.

“He gave them to me. For safekeeping,” I added quickly.

Bucky looked up, confused.

“It wasn’t because I was the most important to him. Probably more because I was the least.”

He frowned.

“You know that’s not true.”

“I meant, the least important person to the world. The least significant. The least likely to have my house blown up,” I explained. “I tried to give them back to him. A few times. The last time was when he came after the blip. When he was… after he’d gone back to his own time.” 

When the elderly man with the familiar blue eyes had appeared on my parents’ doorstep, I’d assumed he was one of my mom’s estate planning clients. But no. It had been Steve. 

He’d finally gotten to live his life, with her. The life he had deserved to live. I was nothing but happy for him. I’d been shocked he’d taken the time to come and find me. He’d said he had just wanted to make sure I was all right. That I’d made it back. 

I’d found the tags after the blip in the back of my jewelry box, right where I’d left them five years before. My stuff had been sent to my mom when I’d disappeared. She’d kept it all just in case I came back. Same with my dad’s stuff. And we had both come back. 

I’d offered them back to Steve, and he had just smiled, looking more at peace than he’d ever looked as a younger man, and told me that he had everything he needed to remember his past.

“He said he wanted me to have them. But I’m pretty sure he’d rather they go to you.” 

Bucky finally looked down at his hand, ran his thumb over the smooth metal. I knew what they said. I’d held them a hundred times.

They read simply “Steven G. Rogers,” followed by his serial number, his tetanus shot dates, and his blood type.

“It’s blank,” he observed.

“What?”

“It’s blank here because he had no next of kin.” 

“You were his family,” I said gently. “He’d want you to have them.”

Bucky looked at them for a long time, not saying anything. Then he appeared to come to a decision and gathered up the chain, stuffing it in his pocket. 

“Thank you,” he said, finally looking at me. 

“You’re welcome.”

“I, ahem.” He cleared his throat. “I have a gift for you too.” 

I looked at him, surprised. 

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” I said.

“I know. I wanted to.”

He reached down next to him on the couch and pulled out a small box. I wondered when he’d put it there. It appeared as if by magic, like the knife.

I’d been so excited about giving Bucky his gift it had never even occurred to me that he would bring something for me. And now that the box was in front of me, I couldn’t imagine what might be in it. It was small, with a metallic gold design embossed on it. It looked like a box that would hold something valuable. 

I looked up at him. He had a tight smile but looked guarded, as though he were anxious about whether I would like it. I carefully opened the lid and removed a layer of white padding, and gasped. 

Inside the box lay the most beautiful bracelet I’d ever seen. It was made of what looked like diamonds and sapphires in an Art Deco design that ran all the way around the band. It was easily the most extravagant piece of jewelry I’d ever seen, much less held in my hand. 

“Oh, Bucky.”

I felt I should say more but I was so stunned I had a hard time finding words and making sentences. He looked at me expectantly, as though there were a chance any girl in the world wouldn’t want it. 

“It’s beautiful.” 

He looked relieved. 

“It was my mother’s,” he said quietly.

**********

Bucky hadn’t planned on celebrating Christmas, but the more he had thought about Margaret’s dinner invitation, the more excited he’d become. He had been looking for a way to show her what she meant to him and how much he appreciated everything she’d done for him. A Christmas gift would be a good way to do that. And he knew exactly what he wanted to give her. 

It had been his favorite piece of his mother’s jewelry. The one he remembered the best. He liked the idea of Margaret wearing it. Not because he thought of her in the same way he thought of his mother, but because he remembered the look on his mother’s face when his father had given it to her. 

He’d had the bracelet for a while. When his mother died, her belongings had gone to his sister, including the jewelry. He couldn’t fault anyone. He’d been dead at the time. But with the fallout from everyone returning after the blip, a lot of people had gotten rid of old belongings. His sister was gone, and Bucky didn’t blame the grandkids for not wanting a bunch of old jewelry. It worked out for him because the auction had been conducted online, so he’d been able to buy the bracelet anonymously.

Hydra had left caches of money and weapons all over the world for the Winter Soldier. They had made sure he knew their locations, that those never got wiped away. After Hydra fell, Bucky had cleaned them out. They could hardly begrudge him that. He’d more than earned it. Getting the money to his family through the auction, even family he’d never met, had felt good. 

But he didn’t want to explain any of that to her. Didn’t want to bring Hydra into this. Didn’t want to think about how he had used their blood money to purchase this gift for her. 

“Your mother’s?” Margaret’s voice was almost a whisper.

“Yes.”

She held the bracelet carefully, as though she thought it might dissolve in her hands. 

He didn’t know how to explain to Margaret what she meant to him in words. What her friendship and support had meant. What it meant when she looked at him the way she did. Nobody else looked at Bucky like that. Not even Bucky. 

He had come to believe the worst about himself, that he was the monster everyone feared. Because he could never know, could never be sure, that he would never be that monster again. 

It was a dangerous thing not to be able to trust your own mind. That’s why it was so addictive being with someone who trusted him so completely. Trusted him to be in her house, share her table, share her bed. Be close to her. Someone who saw him as the man he wanted so badly to be.

He felt these things but didn’t know how to express them to her. But this gift could show her how he felt. 

“Are you sure you want me to have this?” She looked up at him and instead of happiness he saw doubt.

He stuck a hand in his pocket and a surge of jealousy went through him.

“You took Steve’s dog tags,” he heard himself say. Damn that truth serum.

“For safekeeping,” she said gently. 

“Then take this for safekeeping. You’re definitely more likely to get some use out of it than I am.”

He watched her brows furrow as she considered his words. He silently pleaded with her to trust him the way he trusted her. Her face relaxed and she smiled. 

“It’s a lovely gift. I’m honored to have it.”

“Now we just need to find you a special occasion to wear it.”

“Any time you’re here is a special occasion,” she replied. “Would you mind?” She wrapped the bracelet around her wrist and held it out to him.

“Not at all,” he said, his fingers making quick work of the tiny catch. 

His metal hand wasn’t designed for such delicate procedures, but his real hand worked just fine. As he fastened the sparkling jewels, he studied the slender span of her wrist, watched her pulse flutter under her skin. He was always a little taken aback at how fragile she seemed. He supposed she was no more fragile than any woman but seemed so because her safety was important to him. 

He watched her look down at the bracelet, then back up at him. Her eyes were warm.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome.”

She reached a hand behind his neck and gently tugged him towards her, leaning forward and kissing him softly on the lips. He resisted the urge to grab her and pull her against him, letting her control the length and intensity of the kiss. She pulled back much too soon, glancing down again at the bracelet on her wrist. 

Now that he had seen Margaret wearing it, he wondered what she would look like wearing only that. 

It was fascinating how he had competing desires to protect her vulnerable body, and also drill her into the couch as she writhed beneath him. Maybe he could shoot for something in between.

“What would you like to do now? Are you up for some research?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow. 

He grinned at her. 

“You read my mind.”


	13. Research (Adult Content)

WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS ADULT CONTENT. ENJOY!

**********

Research. 

It was all he thought about lately. To the point it was becoming distracting. He still loved eating dinner across the table from her, talking to her about her family and her blissfully normal life. Loved watching movies he’d never seen, listening to songs he’d never heard, sharing the last eighty years of history with her. But the thought insistently pushing towards the front of his mind was what it would feel like to touch her. To explore her body with his mouth and his hands, and to feel her hands on him. 

It shouldn’t be new to him, shouldn’t feel like something he was doing for the first time. But in a way it was because all of his experience had come before. In his past life. It was new to the person he’d become. And it would be new because it was with her. 

He just had to make sure she was safe. That he never lost control. Never let himself forget how delicate she was, how vulnerable. 

Sometimes he wished he could just take the arm off. Rid himself of that danger. That risk. But it was necessary for everything he did when he wasn’t here. For everything he did to make the world safe for her. 

He wished he could just stay in this warm hazy bubble of her kisses and soft skin, leave the evil and the maniacs and the danger to someone else. For now, he would leave them outside the door and just concentrate on keeping her safe from him.

**********

“Let me put on some more appropriate music.” 

I loved Christmas songs, but it was a little too wholesome for what I was hoping Bucky had in mind. Deciding to forgo the record player altogether so we weren’t left listening to pops and scratches after half an hour, I plugged my iPod into the stereo and picked a long playlist of old love songs. 

The Ink Spots “If I Didn’t Care” intoned softly from the speaker behind me. 

“This is on your favorites list,” Bucky remarked. He was sitting on the couch where I’d left him, towards the middle this time rather than huddled up against one side like usual. 

“Yes,” I replied. “Good memory.”

“I like that playlist. I listen to it a lot.”

“What else do you like?” I asked, curling up next to him on the couch and tucking my legs under my skirt. 

“I like Sam Cooke.” He looked down at me with those blue grey eyes.

“Yeah?” 

“And Elvis Presley.” I was hypnotized watching his lips move. 

“Mmm hmmm.” 

“I like the way you look in that dress.” He did that thing where the corners of his mouth tugged up into a half smile. 

My skin felt alive, it tingled with the need for him to touch me. The anticipation. I didn’t know what to do. We were supposed to go slow, let him get comfortable being close. But honestly, if he’d taken his metal arm and ripped my dress right off, I would have been down for that too.

But he didn’t move. He just looked at me, looked at my lips, maybe waiting for me to take the first step so he would know it was okay. I turned to face him and put my hands on his chest. He was so solid. I wanted to feel that weight on top of me, drilling me into the couch cushions.

Slow. Down.

I put one hand behind his neck, and gently pulled him down towards me. I stopped when his face was just inches away, close enough to feel his breath on my cheek. 

“Is this okay?” I whispered. 

I could hear him breathing. It was funny, when he wanted to be invisible, he could come and go completely silently. Like a ghost. But right now, I’d swear I could hear his heartbeat. Could almost hear his thoughts. At times like this I couldn’t imagine him as an assassin. As someone to be feared. His whole world was right there, reflected in his eyes. All the need, all the guilt, all the desire. Naked honesty.

He didn’t respond, just leaned forward and closed his mouth over mine. I could feel his stubble, rough against my cheeks and chin. His tongue was in my mouth. Pushing, licking. Tasting me. 

It was experimental. Like he was exploring the experience of a kiss. He licked my teeth. Sucked on my bottom lip. He buried his hand in my hair and grabbed on, tilting my head back.

He kept his lips on mine but moved his hands down to my hips, and seemingly without effort he shifted me so I was straddling him. I whimpered into his mouth as his hands kneaded my thighs.

He pulled away for a moment and my eyes opened, wanting to know why he’d stopped. 

“Was that a good noise?” He seemed surprised that I’d enjoyed what he was doing enough to make sounds.

I smiled. “Yes, good noise. I promise, if you do something that hurts or makes me uncomfortable, I’ll tell you to stop. But please, keep doing that.”

He grinned and brought his lips back to mine and his hands back to my thighs. 

My hands were on his chest, flat against his pecs. I could feel him pushing against me, against the inside of my leg. Even through his pants. 

That can’t be comfortable.

I moved one hand down, over his stomach, squeezing his hard thigh in my palm. He reached down and captured my hand in his.

“Wait,” he said. His eyes were shut, mouth a tight line.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be forward…. I know you’re from a different time,” I began.

He gave something between a laugh and a groan.

“It’s not that.” His eyes opened. “I do want this. I want you. But I can feel myself slipping. Maybe we can wait on that until I’m a little more in control.”

“Okay. Do you want to stop?”

“NO.” 

I laughed at his forcefulness. 

“Alright, then we’ll try something else. Um, would you…” 

I really wanted to see him without his shirt. To get a good look at what I’d gotten just a peek at the night he’d slept here. To run my fingers over his warm skin. Kiss every inch of the solid muscle under my hands. Show him the tenderness he’d been deprived of for so long. 

For some reason I was suddenly overcome with a feeling of self-consciousness. I was not an expert in seduction. I was comfortable being with Bucky but because it had been so long for him, I wanted it to be special. Memorable. I was sure there was some sexy way to do all of this but I didn’t know what it was. 

But this was Bucky. I should just ask him. 

**********

She started laughing and covered her face with her hand.

“What?” he asked, smiling. He couldn’t stop smiling. It was the most he could remember smiling since before he’d left for the war.

She sobered up enough to respond. “Would you take off your shirt?”

The smile disappeared. He breathed in and out. He had known this moment would come. Hoped for it. Dreaded it. Wanted it. But wanted it to be over so he would know what she would do.

He reached down past the soft fabric of her skirt, down between her legs spread on his lap, and pulled his shirt out of his pants.

“Wait,” she said. He let go of the shirt.

Maybe she’d rethought it. Maybe she didn’t want to see after all. He would understand. 

“Let me.”

She took the end of the shirt in her hands and began to unbutton it. She slid down his legs until she was kneeling between them. As she undid each button, uncovered each inch of his torso, she kissed it. Softly. Gently, like a whisper against his skin. 

He couldn’t speak. He could hardly breathe. 

He watched, silent, as she made her way up the ridges in the muscles of his gut. She passed a scar from a long distant injury. He couldn’t remember what it was from. She paused there for a moment, before planting a kiss on it and moving on. 

When she reached his nipples, she kissed one, and then gently took the other between her teeth.

Ah, God.

His head fell back, eyes closed, overwhelmed with the sensation. 

He felt her warm breath against his chest. Felt her kisses move up towards his collarbone. She stopped for a moment and tugged the shirt up his real arm, trying to remove it. He smiled at her eagerness to get it off. 

“Wait, let me help.” 

He shrugged his arm out of the sleeve, leaving the other side still covering the metal arm.

She took his hand in hers and brought it to her lips, kissing the knuckles before taking each fingertip into her mouth and sucking on it. 

He felt it in his groin, becoming unbearable even in the relatively roomy confines of his pants. He couldn’t close his eyes now, couldn’t look away from the image of her red lips around his fingers, her eyes crinkling at the corners when she saw how she was affecting him.

As she pulled his thumb out of her mouth, her teeth raking the sensitive pad, he shook his head and blew out a breath.

It had been enough of a distraction to make him forget his anxiety. But as she began to leave a trail of kisses up his arm, he remembered where she would be headed next. 

He leaned back on the couch and prepared for the worst. For her rejection. She’d given him no reason to believe that she would be repulsed, but he would understand if she were.

When she reached his shoulder, she slid back onto his lap, so she was once again straddling him. As she made her way across to his other arm, she stopped and placed her hand on his cheek, kissing him with her sweet mouth. 

He had the errant thought, if I had to pick a place to die, this would be it. With her on my lap, her tongue in my mouth. 

Slowly, inevitably, she moved the focus of her attention to his other shoulder. The place where the metal met flesh. Where the scars left angry gashes across his skin. The inhuman machinery of death.

He waited.

She paused a moment, and then slid the shirt down the arm until it passed over his wrist and fell to the floor. 

She took the metal hand in hers and brought it to her mouth. She looked him in the eye as she kissed the knuckles, and, just as she had done with his real hand, she took the metal fingers into her mouth, one at a time.

The sensation wasn’t nearly as acute. He couldn’t feel the vibration as her teeth passed over the ridges of fingerprints. Couldn’t feel the wet warmth that made him imagine what her other warm, wet places would feel like. 

But the significance of it took his breath away. 

He watched as she kissed her way back up his arm, watched as her lips moved from the metal to the scar tissue. She pulled away for a moment to study the place where the arm was joined to his body. 

Touched the angry damaged flesh with the delicate tips of her fingers, then bent her head and kissed it. 

It was better than his dream. A thousand times better. An immense sense of relief and desire washed over him. 

She lifted her head and kissed his lips again, long and sweet.

“Do you want to keep going?” she asked, with a knowing smile.

Now that he knew she wouldn’t recoil in disgust from seeing his body, he was game for whatever she wanted to do. 

“Yes,” he replied, pulling her lips back down to his for another kiss. 

“How far do you want to go?” she asked.

He laughed shakily. “That is a dangerous question to ask right now.”

“I’m not trying to slow you down,” she said, running a finger over his chest. “I just want to make sure you don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

“Believe me, I’ve done lots of things I regret. This will never be one of them.”

She smiled at him and took a breath. He thought she sounded a little shaky too.

“You didn’t answer my question.” The huskiness in her voice launched a shiver down his spine. He thought about it and decided to answer honestly.

“I want to kiss you everywhere.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Everywhere,” he said again. 

As he brought her lips back down to his, he reached around behind her and found the small tab on the zipper of her dress. His deft fingers made quick work of it, and he slid the sleeve down one smooth shoulder. He felt her shiver against him, but he trusted her to keep her word and tell him if anything he did wasn’t okay. It must have been a good shiver.

He slipped the other sleeve down and reached between them to peel the bodice down to her waist. His curiosity was strong enough to make him pull away from her for a moment. He wanted to see what she wore under those fancy dresses. 

The bra was black satin. He loved the way it stood out against her creamy skin. She looked like a pinup from an old Esquire magazine. A Petty girl. Every fantasy he’d had in high school, come to life and on his lap. 

“You are so lovely,” he murmured, dropping a kiss on her collarbone, her shoulder. Her skin was like satin. 

She speared a hand through his hair and made a soft, utterly feminine sound. Bucky smiled and wrapped an arm around her back, pulling her against him. He hooked his thumb under the black strap of her bra and drew it down her shoulder, leaving kisses as he went.

“Wait,” she said, taking his hand in hers.

He immediately sat back so he could see her face.

********** 

Bucky looked concerned, as though he thought he’d hurt me.

“It’s fine, I just, um…” I looked at him and considered the ridiculousness of what I was about to say. “I have scars too.”

He looked alarmed and confused.

“We don’t have to—”

“No, it’s okay. I just wanted to warn you.”

He tilted his head, like he was trying to figure out if I was really okay with this. I needed to show him that I was. I wanted to feel his hands on me, his mouth on me. I would just need to get past this part. 

I reached around and unhooked the bra myself, pulling my arms out of the straps and dropping it on the couch next to him. 

He’d watched me with some interest, but once I’d removed the bra he seemed reluctant to look down. 

“It’s okay,” I said with a smile, giving him permission.

His eyes dropped to my chest, and his concern changed to something akin to fascination. He reached out and gently grazed the side of one breast with his finger.

“I don’t see scars,” he said, finally, looking back up at me. “I only see you.”

I looked away and blushed.

“You have scars here?” 

I could understand his difficulty. The light was low, and he didn’t know what he was looking for. I took his hand in mine and used his fingers to trace the line of my scars, from under my armpit around to my sternum. 

He looked closely at my skin, and his eyes changed when he finally saw what I’d been showing him. I saw the wheels turning in his head, trying to figure out what the marks could possibly be from and coming up empty. 

“Did somebody do this to you?” he asked softly.

For someone who had lived his life, that was probably the most logical conclusion. My heart broke for him.

“In a manner of speaking,” I replied. “But with my permission.”

He waited for me to continue, to explain.

“I used to be bigger. It gave me back pain. So, I had surgery…” I trailed off, feeling my cheeks burn, hoping he would understand so I didn’t have to go into detail about it. 

His eyebrows furrowed, and then he gave a slow nod in understanding.

“I was married at the time. I didn’t think I’d ever have to… explain it to anyone. I didn’t think anyone else would ever see it.”

He smiled up at me. 

“Well, you look perfect to me.” 

My arms crossed instinctively over my chest, suddenly feeling insecure about the fact that he was looking right at the scars I usually tried to hide. Not wanting him to see the flaw.

“Do my scars bother you?” he asked.

“Of course not.” Other than being a reminder of the horrors he’d suffered, anyway. “I love your body.” 

He smiled.

“I love your body too,” he said, gently tugging my hands away, bringing one to his lips and kissing my palm, the inside of my wrist.

The look in his eyes as he kissed me made me forget my scars. Almost.

**********

Bucky watched Margaret’s face as he kissed her hand. She still seemed a little self-conscious. If she knew how much he wanted her, she couldn’t possibly be self-conscious. He wished he had the words to tell her. He would just have to show her. 

He gazed down at her breasts, seeing only their lush curves rather than the scars she was so worried about. He ran a knuckle over one pink nipple. Then he bent his head to kiss it and took it in his mouth. 

The reaction was immediate and satisfying. Her eyes closed and a soft moan escaped from her lips. Her hands clutched at his hair, keeping him pressed against her. As if he had any plans to move. 

He sucked and teased the sweet little bud, his arousal intensifying with the sexy sounds she was making. He wished she’d give him an iPod with a track of that. Let him listen to her sigh and moan as he lay in his bed at night, knowing he’d been the one giving her that pleasure. 

Despite her obvious concern, her breasts were even better than he’d imagined. Creamy white skin with dark pink tips. Full and soft, like ripe fruit. He wanted to fill his hands with them, bury his face in them. Make her squirm as he licked and teased the hardened nipples. 

The sounds emerging from her open lips made him groan in response. Made him itch to rip his clothes off, rip her clothes off. Remove the remaining barrier between them. Feel her naked skin all along the length of his body. Finally fulfill his agonizing dreams of burying himself in her moist heat. 

He pulled himself away from her nipple just long enough to claim her mouth with his tongue. His hands fumbled with the froth of skirt on his lap, reaching underneath to feel the silky sheen of her stockings. He traced them up her inner thighs until he reached bare skin. She whimpered into his mouth.

His strong fingers kneaded the supple flesh of her thighs, and she rocked back and forth on his lap. He groaned again as a surge of need went through him. He had to find a way to slow down, but his hands refused to relinquish her. Even the metal one. 

He grabbed her hips to keep them still. If she stayed on his lap, she was going to drive him past the edge of his control. Without pulling his mouth away from hers, he slid his hands under her thighs and picked her up. She gasped again, but he’d expected it this time. She didn’t stop kissing him, just wrapped her arms tighter around his neck. He turned and laid her down on the couch, his lips still on hers. 

He hadn’t been lying when he’d said he wanted to kiss her everywhere. He relished the idea of exploring her body for the purpose of bringing her pleasure rather than pain, although he wished he were as well-versed in the former as the latter. 

He sat back between her legs. When he pulled away, she made a sound of protest and opened her eyes, giving him a questioning look. He grabbed her leg by the calf and lifted it, kissing the inside of her knee, working his way up her thigh until he reached the end of the stocking. Her eyes closed again, her head falling back on the pillow. The sound she made was music. 

He continued towards the source of her warmth, running a finger over the damp satin. He could smell her arousal. It loosened his grip on his control and he sat back again, closing his eyes and willing himself to rein it in. 

As a distraction, Bucky studied the fastenings keeping her stockings in place. He could rip them off, but he didn’t think she’d appreciate the destruction of her clothes. He needed to show her he could be gentle. 

They looked like the clips he’d worn once upon a time to hold up his socks. He slid the rubber stopper through the metal ring and smiled as the stocking slid free. He discovered each leg had three clips, and his fingers made quick work of them, taking the opportunity to graze her rounded bottom as he unclipped the ones in back. 

He eased the gauzy sheath down her thigh and calf, kissing her naked leg as he went, and slipping the stocking off her foot. He repeated the process on the other side and found himself encircled by her bare legs. He traced his fingertips along them, unable to get his fill of her soft skin. 

She sighed again, a satisfied sound. He looked down at her, sprawled wantonly on the couch, one hand draped over her head, the bracelet sparkling on her wrist, even in the low light. He felt a rush of pride surge through him, as though he’d marked her as his own. Claimed her. 

Her sinfully naked legs encircled his waist. He took several steadying breaths to get a grip on himself before he touched her again.

He wasn’t sure what she wanted him to do next. He wanted to make her feel good. To learn what she liked. She had seemed okay with everything he’d done up to that point. More than okay, judging by her expression. 

He knew what he wanted to do. Rip off the scrap of satin between her legs. See what she tasted like. Commit every detail to memory so he could live it over and over until no brainwashing could ever steal it from him.

He wasn’t sure if that was what she wanted. She’d asked him how far he wanted to go, he should have thought to ask her the same thing. He’d proceed slowly, both to make sure she was okay with it, and to keep himself under control. 

He bent his head and kissed the inside of her thigh, enjoying the feeling of her bare skin against his lips. He sucked on her leg. Took the skin gently between his teeth. It was firm and supple. He wanted to bite into it like a juicy peach.

He could smell her again. It was sweet, almost like the floral scent of her skin, but with an earthiness that drove him crazy. The smell grew more pungent as he neared the apex of her legs. This time he didn’t stop. He continued kissing her right through that black satin. 

“Bucky.”

She whispered his name. Sweet Lord, the way she whispered his name.

“Bucky, yes.”

He licked her through the panties, already wet from his kisses and her arousal. She arched her back. Her hands clenched in his hair. Pulled it. The slight pain felt good. 

“Please,” she said.

“What?”

Anything. He would do anything.

She reached down and tugged at her lace waistband. He may not be an expert in this, but even he could figure out what that meant. He hooked a finger under each side and eased the panties down her legs, dropping them on the floor. 

He stopped then and looked down at her. He’d spent a fair amount of time imagining what she would look like without her clothes. Another piece of the puzzle had just fallen into place. The sight of her made his pulse jump. It was impossible not to imagine plunging himself into her, thrusting over and over as she whispered his name. 

Moaned his name. 

Screamed it. 

His hands involuntarily closed into fists. He felt them do it. His thighs clenched. His breathing rasped in and out. He wanted to be inside of her. Too much. Wanted this too much. 

Rather than crushing her with the full force of his weight and driving himself deep into her soft flesh as his inner demons were straining to do, he lowered his face to the tuft of dark curls nestled between her round thighs and gave her a searingly intimate kiss. 

His senses were overcome. The taste was bittersweet, like lemons and honey. The curls tickled his nose. The smooth fabric of her skirt skimmed his rough cheek. And her voice was a prayer as she whispered his name, over and over. 

There was no attempt at technique. He just licked and caressed until he got a response. It seemed to be working. 

She reached down, grabbing his shoulders and trying to pull him up towards her. He tore himself away from his place between her legs to see what she needed. 

“I want to touch you,” she said. 

“I want that too,” he said softly, almost through his teeth, forcing down the impulse to drive her back against the cushions and give her what she’d asked for. “But let me get used to this first. I need to make sure I can be safe with you.” 

He said it as much for his own good as for hers. To remind himself why he needed to hold back. There would be time for the other later, and he wanted it to be good for both of them. 

To forestall any objection she might have, he bent his head back down and ran his tongue along her crease. She writhed above him, arching her back and tugging fistfuls of his hair, her sounds becoming louder and more desperate. He wrapped a strong hand around each soft thigh and held her still as he licked and teased her with his mouth. 

He glanced up at her, wanting to remember how she looked as she came apart. Knowing he had done that to her. The small amount of pleasure erasing a small measure of the pain. 

He was not disappointed. Her face flushed, her breathing came in and out in small gasps, and she arched mightily against the couch cushion. Her feverish cries reached a crescendo as he felt her tense beneath him. 

Then the waves seemed to subside. She lay back on the pillow and her breathing returned to normal. She reached down and pulled again at his shoulders. This time he relented, raising himself up on his elbows, holding his big body over hers, careful not to crush her with his weight. He looked down into her bright eyes, cheeks still flushed with pleasure. 

All he wanted was to plunge himself into her hot, wet center. Put his member where his tongue had been. And he knew she would have let him do it. Even now his lower body clenched at the thought. His muscles tightened, like bands of steel. 

And that was why he couldn’t risk it. Until he knew he could be with her without crushing her slight frame, bruising or tearing her skin, he’d have to wait. 

But what he’d just done would be enough to fill his dreams until he was able to reach satisfaction inside of her. He could close his eyes and see her body, naked and trembling beneath him. Her taste was still on his tongue. Her scent in his nostrils. 

She wrapped her hands around his neck and pulled him down for a kiss.

“You taste like me,” she said, giving him a sly smile.

He grinned down at her face, inches away from his.

“When do I get to taste you?” she asked. 

Well hell, that thought hadn’t even occurred to him. He closed his eyes, trying to slow his breathing, but all he could see behind his eyelids was her sweet red lips closing around him. His jaw tightened as his groin swelled in his pants.

That image was immediately followed by one of his hands gripping her delicate shoulders, the metal one clenching unconsciously. 

Her collarbone snapping.

His eyes popped open. 

“I think we’d better wait,” he said. 

“Okay,” she said, in a husky voice he hadn’t heard her use before. “But not too long.”

**********

“Are you sure you can’t stay?” I asked, as I came out of the kitchen carrying a bag with his leftovers. 

My stomach fell a little when I saw that Bucky was already standing by the front door in his jacket, but it cheered me to see he was wearing the cap I’d made. 

“I’m sorry, I wish I could.”

“I got you a toothbrush,” I offered helpfully.

He grinned. “Yours is the pink one. I remember.”

I handed him the cloth shopping bag and noticed the plaid gift bag with the Nutella was dangling from his hand by the ribbon strings. 

“And you’re sure I can’t, I mean, are you sure there’s nothing I can do for you?” 

My offer was genuine. My knees were still weak from what he’d done to me on the couch. If he’d hinted he wanted it, I’d have been happy to drop down on those knees right there in the doorway. “It seems like you got the fuzzy end of that lollipop.”

He chuckled and clutched his bags in the metal hand, sticking the other into his pocket. 

“Don’t worry about me,” he replied. “I’m the luckiest guy in the world tonight.”

“Well, next time I’m going to take care of you.”

“You always take care of me.” 

He leaned down and kissed me softly on the cheek. My face flushed, remembering where those lips had been half an hour before. 

He opened the door and stepped down onto the stoop. Like always, I checked the street for his mode of transportation. I decided I couldn’t bear the suspense any longer.

“How did you get here?”

He seemed startled at the question.

“You always just disappear when you get to those trees over there. I never see how you leave.”

He smiled. 

“A motorcycle.”

I checked the street again.

“Where is it?”

“A few blocks over.”

I didn’t ask why. Figured he had his reasons. 

“Can I have a ride sometime?”

“You want a ride on my motorcycle?” he asked, surprised.

“Yes. I like riding on the back.”

“Did Steve ever-”

“No, he had the same rules you do.”

Bucky was quiet for a minute. He seemed to be considering it.

“I could wear a helmet. Nobody would know who I was.”

He looked down at my dress.

“I have pants,” I said with a grin. 

“Let me think about it.”

“Fair enough.”

He stepped down onto the walkway and I watched him as he took the same route he always did. Just before he reached the cover of the trees, he turned back to me and gave me a cheery wave. 

Then he stepped into the darkness and disappeared, like always.


	14. Vulnerable In This Area

Bucky had been gone for three weeks. 

Three weeks. Without a word.

At first it didn’t seem that strange. When he hadn’t shown up for the dinner date we’d planned, I figured he’d gotten held up. Honestly, it was kind of amazing it hadn’t happened sooner. I sent him a text, “Stay safe,” and ate dinner alone. I thought about sending something more flowery, but I was so paranoid about contacting him at all that I didn’t want to overdo it. 

When he hadn’t gotten back to me the next day, I figured he must have been called away somewhere. He knew I was safe, and he’d get back to me with an explanation later. It was fine. He’d warned me that he couldn’t always get messages out, depending on where he was. I certainly didn’t want to bother him. He’d get back to me when he could.

After a week I became more concerned. One would think that he should have had a minute here or there to confirm he was alive, but I still didn’t want to overreact. Of all people, I knew what his life was like.

Or did I? That was what made this so hard. I should be used to this after Steve, never knowing where he was, not hearing from him for weeks at a time. But with Steve at least I knew he was with his team. That he had support. That he had access to technology and weapons. People who knew where he was and would help get him out.

With Bucky, I knew none of that. I had no idea what he did when he wasn’t with me. He wanted it that way. But that meant I had no way of knowing what kind of danger he might be in, or whether anyone would be there to help him. If he would even let them try. I didn’t think he was suicidal, but he definitely had issues with self-worth and problems letting people endanger themselves to help him. 

After two weeks with no word, I didn’t know what to do. I thought about texting him again, or calling him, but decided against it. What if his phone made a sound at a bad time? What if someone was using incoming messages to track him? What if he needed to conserve the battery? 

Besides, what did I think? That he was hanging out playing video games and waiting to hear from me? That would have been far better than what I imagined the reality was. 

I was scanning the news, looking for headlines that might provide some clue as to where he could be. Every bad situation in every sketchy country. Doing Google searches for James Barnes. Bucky Barnes. Winter Soldier. Even Sam Wilson. 

There was nothing. 

After three weeks I was having trouble sleeping. I couldn’t imagine where he could be that he hadn’t contacted me. The only options left were too terrible to contemplate. 

Imprisoned by a warlord. Frozen by HYDRA. Lying dead in an alley halfway around the world. 

And there was nothing I could do to help. 

I was still awake in bed at one in the morning, staring at the streetlights reflected on my ceiling, when I heard a knock at the door. 

I almost threw up. My first thought was it might be someone coming to break the bad news, but then I remembered nobody knew he meant anything to me. Or that I might have meant something to him. 

I didn’t bother to put on a robe, just slid out of bed and went to the door, opening it without checking who it was. Honestly not caring if the person out there intended to hurt me.

He stood on my front step, hands in his pockets.

Bucky. 

Something twisted up inside me released. I scanned him for injuries and saw none. He looked tired, but that wasn’t new. 

This time, I was the one who couldn’t speak. He gave me a questioning look, and I stepped aside so he could come through the door. 

I managed to hold it together until I’d shut the door behind him before I crumpled into tears. Three weeks of pent up fear and anxiety released all at once. I think I startled myself more than him. He just gathered me up in his arms and held me against him, stroking my hair. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, again and again. “I’m sorry.”

He felt so strong, so reassuringly solid. It was hard to imagine that anyone could ever hurt him. But only when he was here, with me. The minute he walked out the door I would start worrying again. 

It was several minutes before I could speak. My tears soaked into his jacket.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m fine.”

“Can you tell me where you were?”

“It wouldn’t make you feel any better.”

I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him fiercely, as though my feeble strength would be enough to keep him there. Keep him safe.

“I wish you could just stay here with me. I’d bring you steak, and cornflakes, and you could stay here and get really good at watercolors and open jars for me with your metal arm.” I could feel him smile into my hair.

“That sounds perfect.”

I waited for him to continue. He didn’t.

“But…” I prompted.

“But I can’t do that.” 

I pulled away, looked up at him with my blotchy tearstained face.

“Why not?” I asked, sniffling.

“Because there are people who need help. And I can help them.”

“I guess I’m selfish then, because I want you all to myself.” 

Just like I wanted Steve all to myself, I thought. I don’t want you to go out and save them. I want you to stay here with me, where I know you’re safe. 

“No more selfish than me, wanting to stay here with you,” he said.

“Can you at least stay tonight?” I was ready to get into some serious persuading if necessary. 

“Yes.”

I didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to hear all the reasons he had to continue to risk his life. Didn’t want to see him look at me with sympathy in his eyes. I just wanted to lay in the dark, with his strong arms around me, secure in the knowledge that he was safe for now. 

He seemed to understand and allowed himself to be led into the bedroom without question. I reluctantly dropped his hand in order to get his pajamas out of the dresser. I’d gotten him another tee shirt after he’d taken the last one home. A denim blue one, this time. Like his eyes. I’d almost picked up a shirt with Steve’s shield on it, but then decided conjuring up Steve’s ghost in the bedroom might work against me. 

I set the shirt and pants on the bed and looked at him. 

“You’re really all right?” I asked.

“Do you want to check?” He reached down to grab the hem of his shirt and grinned at me. Ahhh, that man’s smile was everything. 

The last time he’d slept here I’d made an effort to give him privacy, but I really did need to reassure myself he was okay. I was hoping he wouldn’t view my concern as a violation of his personal space. 

I reached down and pulled the shirt up his body, waiting as he tugged it over his head and dropped it on the floor. 

He seemed amused as I carefully inspected his chest, looking for injuries. 

I’d seen his chest before. Three weeks ago, when we’d been on my couch. But then I had been distracted by other priorities. Now that I was actively looking for injuries, I couldn’t help noticing the number of old scars he had. Not just where the arm connected, but all over his torso, arms, and shoulders. I had no doubt there were matching scars elsewhere on his body. I could almost feel the blades and bullets hit him as my fingers ran over each old wound. 

I didn’t see any fresh scars, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been hurt. He’d been gone for three weeks. If his body was anything like Steve’s, he could’ve had broken bones, bruised flesh, gashes, a concussion, and still have been visibly healed by the time he appeared on my doorstep. 

He tolerated my inspection for a few moments, but then caught my hand in his. 

“I’m fine,” he assured me. 

I looked up into his face. 

“You scared me.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

I wanted to be mad. Might be mad tomorrow. But right now, all I could feel was relief. 

I reached one hand around his neck and pulled him down to me, kissing him long and hard on the lips. He responded eagerly, wrapping his arms around my waist, holding me close, as if making up for lost time. Three weeks was too long to go without feeling his arms around me. 

I could have stood there kissing him all night, but I remembered that it was after one in the morning, and he had probably just gotten back from whatever nightmare he’d been embroiled in.  


I pushed gently against his chest and his arms loosened immediately.

“Why don’t we both get some sleep?” I said, looking up at him.

“Good idea.” 

********** 

Bucky had prepared himself for indifference. Three weeks was a long time to disappear on someone. He would have been delighted to see her spitting mad, to prove that she hadn’t forgotten about him. 

But he was unprepared for the absolute heartbreak written all over her beautiful, tearstained face. The idea that he could have come to mean so much to her during the short time they’d been together. 

That it wasn’t all one-sided. He mattered to her. 

That feeling, the indisputable confirmation that she cared about him, made him want to grin like an idiot. But knowing the anguish he’d apparently caused her robbed some of the joy of it. He’d enjoy it later, hold it close to his heart. But for now, he just wanted to hold her. 

When he’d removed his shirt this time there had been no self-consciousness. No inward flinching at the reveal of his disfigurement. Just amusement at the thoroughness of her inspection. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had worried so much about him getting hurt. Even he had stopped caring, viewing every scar and wound as penance for his crimes. 

That was why he had made her stop. As much as he loved the feel of her hands on his body, he didn’t want her pity. Didn’t deserve the soft look on her face. It was true he had collected his share of scars, but he’d inflicted much worse. The fact that he was standing there was testament to that. He’d seen better men die at his own hand. But he wasn’t about to waste his time with her thinking about any of that.

And then her lips were on his, and nothing else mattered. 

**********

As we lay there in the dark, his arm slung possessively around my waist, I wished there were a way to freeze that moment. A way to tether him to me so that he would always come back. A way to convince him that he deserved a happily ever after. That he could finally stop fighting. 

Just like Steve, Bucky seemed to have resigned himself to the life of a solitary soldier. I couldn’t deny that I secretly harbored hopes that he would eventually abandon that mentality and want to live a more normal life, preferably with me. I had harbored those same hopes with Steve, albeit in futility. And maybe I’d had a better shot with Steve than Bucky. Steve had had scars too, but nothing like Bucky’s. And maybe that was why I just couldn’t give up on the idea this time. Couldn’t give up on him. 

I tried to be the one thing in his life that was problem free. The one who was there for him, unconditionally. The one who didn’t put expectations on him. 

I couldn’t lie to myself though, I did want a life with him. A two cars in the garage, kids in the yard, “Honey, I’m home” kind of life. Or one car, and one motorcycle. I knew I wanted more than he would likely ever be able to give me, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell him all of this because I didn’t want to be one more burden he had to carry. One more disappointment if he couldn’t give me what I wanted. 

So I kept it a secret and tried to just enjoy what I had, waiting for the day he broke my heart.

**********

He was back in the cage. Back in that thing they’d locked him in. Surrounded by glass, manacles clamped down on his shoulders, his arms, his hands, pinning him in place.

“What the hell is this?” he heard himself ask.

A face swam into focus. He knew that face. 

Zemo. The man who’d turned him back into a killer.

“Hello, James.” The voice was soft. Insinuating. 

Bucky would pound that smug feral grin right into his skull. He knew how to get out of here. He’d done it before. 

He strained up against the bonds holding his metal arm in place.

There was an anguished scream. His blood went cold.

Zemo smiled in the dark. 

“I brought you a friend, James.”

Another face appeared. Down, near the ground. A body on all fours. It looked up at him. Brown hair fell away. Hazel eyes red and puffy, streaks of makeup down her cheeks. A gag in her mouth.

Margaret.

She had something around her neck. 

The fury arced through Bucky’s body so sharp and clear it almost lifted him from the chair. He growled and jerked at his restraints. He would rip that monster’s arms right off. 

She screamed again, through the gag, so piercing it cut through his rage. 

Zemo’s smile broadened.

That thing. That thing around her neck. It hurt her when Bucky tried to get free.

“You understand. Good.”

Bucky’s heart thundered in his chest. The nightmare he’d dreaded, ever since the first night he’d stayed for dinner, had finally come to pass. She would see now that he could bring her nothing but pain.  


And it was too late.

The helpnessness overwhelmed him. The same helplessness he’d felt watching his own hands break limbs, strangle and burn.

“You will kill for me, James, or you will watch me peel the skin from her bones.”

Zemo’s grin widened to an inhuman leer, his face like a horrible mask. 

“Shall we begin?”

Margaret whimpered. 

NO. STOP. MAKE IT STOP. 

“Bucky… wake up... Bucky… was just a dream.”

“What?” 

It took him a moment to get his bearings. The room was dark. Even his eyes could only make out shadows of furniture and a few slits of streetlight filtering through the blinds. 

And her, leaning over him, her hand on his shoulder. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, her features cleared, and he could see she looked concerned. 

No gag, no shock collar, no smeared makeup. Just her lovely face. 

He felt his pulse slow, his breathing resume its normal rhythm. He took her hand in his, held it against his lips as though assuring himself it was really there. That she was really there. 

“Sometimes I think you’re just a dream. That maybe I’ll wake up back in that freezer and none of this will be real. You’ll just be some fantasy I created in the dark…”

“I’m real. And you’re real. And you’re here with me, right where you’re supposed to be.” She squeezed his hand in hers. “You’re never going back there again. I won’t let them take you.”

He smiled at her fierceness. She would of course be no match for anyone who came for him, but it was nice that she wanted to try.

He tried to forget, to block out the nightmare, but the images persisted. The anguish on her face, because of him. The helplessness. The worst part of his dream was that it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. Either that Zemo would threaten Margaret to make Bucky kill for him, or that Bucky might consider doing it. 

Zemo was locked up, thank God. But he was still a danger. A man like that would never stop plotting, never stop trying to escape. Never stop hurting others to make up for the hurt he himself had suffered. 

Bucky supposed he could have gone that way. Could have let his experience twist him into an evil monster. But he’d caused enough pain. Seen enough violence for a thousand lifetimes.

Still, he could tell himself all the fairytales he wanted about the things he had done, but the truth was if he hadn’t had that aggression, that brutality, inside him even the brainwashing could never have made him do it. 

He still had that inside of him. The capacity for that kind of violence. The trigger words were gone, but the destructive force remained. Like the deadly potential of an uncocked weapon. He could decide where he wanted to direct it, who he wanted to use it against. But he could never forget that it was still there. 

**********

“Do you ever wonder if you’ll go to sleep like normal, and then wake up a 100 year-old man?” 

“I always wake up a 100 year-old man.”

I laughed. My head was on his shoulder, my hand on his chest where I could feel the pulse of his slow, regular heartbeat through his new shirt. My attempts to help him relax after his nightmare seemed to be working. 

“I’m sorry, I do know what you’re asking,” he said, taking my hand in his and playing with my fingers. “And the answer is, I think I’d be grateful. Maybe then I could just retire and go fishing or whatever people do when they’ve finished a lifetime of work.”

“You’ve already done a lifetime of work.”

“Yeah, well, the wrong kind of work.” 

“Still, it seems like you’ve earned the right to be done with all of that.”

He didn’t say anything, just kissed the top of my head.

“Do you want to tell me what the nightmare was about?”

He sighed. “Not really. Better that stuff just be in my head than yours.”

“You realize that the person with the best chance of hurting me is you, right?” 

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wanted to take them back. What had happened to not putting demands on him?

Bucky gently removed his arm from under my head and leaned up on it, looking intently down into my face. 

“What do you mean?” he asked. 

Oh, I wanted to take it back. This was not a productive conversation. But now that I’d started, I felt I had to explain.

“I seem to be very vulnerable in this area,” I said, indicating my heart.

“That’s one of my favorite areas,” he teased.

I smiled, but then decided if I was going to do this, maybe now wasn’t a bad time. He always seemed more relaxed at night, in the dark. 

“If you get bored with me,” I began, holding up my hand to silence his objections. “If you lose interest in me or in this, I will understand. But promise me you won’t leave me for my own good.”

His smile dropped, he looked away.

“I can’t promise you that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t know what threats are going to come up.”

“I’m willing to risk it.” 

I’d said that before, when he’d been worried that he would be the one to hurt me. The fact that he’d already moved on to being more concerned about other people hurting me seemed like significant progress. Maybe I could change his mind about this too.

Or at least I could give him a reason to stay.

My hand went around his neck, pulling him down to me. I knew he was worried about hurting me, but we were already there, lying next to each other. It was a simple thing to turn my body into his, feel his hard thigh against my leg. 

He responded eagerly, hungrily, like always, as though he had been waiting for permission. But he seemed intent on keeping his body to the side, his metal arm at a safe distance.

It wasn’t enough. I wanted all of him. I wanted to feel the satisfying, crushing weight of his big body on mine. I snaked my leg over his, wrapped my arm around the smooth metal of his shoulder, pulling him down towards me. I could feel him, hard and strong, pushing against my thigh. The proof that he wanted this as much as I did.

He appeared to relent, bracing the metal hand on the pillow next to my head and shifting his body over mine. He was holding himself up, his muscles taut, body rigid. I clutched at his shoulders, still desperately kissing him as I pulled him down towards me. My leg was still wrapped around his. I lifted myself, wanting to feel him against me. 

He groaned.

“Sweet Lord, Maggie,” he breathed, wrenching his lips away from mine, still bracing himself up on his elbows. His gentle eyes held a searching look. 

“How do people stop?”

“Sometimes they don’t.”

He raised an eyebrow. 

“I thought you wanted me to get some sleep.”

“I was trying to improve the quality of your dreams.”

He laughed, his face inches above mine. 

“Don’t you want to… be with me that way?” I would have been embarrassed even asking the question if I wasn’t pretty sure he felt the same way I did.

“I do. Of course, I do. But not until I can figure out a way to make sure I can be safe with you. To make sure I don’t lose control.”

“You seem to be doing fine right now,” I remarked.

“Believe me, it’s taking every ounce of concentration I have.”

I smiled up at him and under the sheets I moved my hips, just a little, against his.

“Don’t,” he warned, sliding off me, back onto his side. I rolled over and curled up against him, my back against the solid wall of his chest. 

“I’ll figure it out,” I said.

“What?”

“A way to make it safe.” I could feel his breath on my neck as he laughed.

“I’m looking forward to it.”

I already had a few ideas. I would definitely be having good dreams tonight.


	15. Open Road

“Tuesday. 9 PM. Wear pants.”

Bucky’s text had been delightfully succinct. 

At exactly 8:59 PM Tuesday evening there was a knock at the door. But not the front door. Curious, I went around to the kitchen door. Nobody there. 

I went through the dark rear hallway and turned on the back porch light. I never used that door. It led out into a small fenced backyard, which other than mowing, I had no use for. 

There he was. I smiled when I saw he was wearing the cap I’d knitted for him. Then I quickly switched the light back off. If he’d showed up at this door, he must be going for stealth.

“Hi.” I greeted him as I pulled the door open, smiling at him with some relief. I no longer took it for granted that he would arrived as planned.

He eyed me up and down, taking in my brown trousers, boots, cream blouse, and burgundy fitted wool coat.

Amused at his inspection, I turned in a circle, modeling my attire. 

“Does this work?” I asked.

He grinned. 

“Sure. I’ll try not to get you dirty.”

It was a completely innocent remark, but the way he said it made my stomach flutter. 

“Did you lock the door?” he asked. I nodded. “Let’s go,” he said, taking my hand. His hand felt somehow warm in mine, even through our gloves.

The cold air was refreshing, although the night was fairly gentle for January in DC. It was a strange feeling as he led me through the backyard and out a gate at the far end. I’d seen Bucky a number of times by now, seen a good portion of him too. But this was the first time we’d ever been together outside my house. There was something exciting about it, almost illicit. 

There were a number of reasons I’d asked for a ride on Bucky’s motorcycle, but one of them was it was another baby step in helping him adjust to having me in his life. Bringing the relationship outside the cocoon of my house. I didn’t expect invitations to restaurants to immediately follow, but at least this allowed him to see that we could be together outside and be safe. 

Bucky held my hand tightly as he guided me through the backyards of my neighborhood. He must have had the eyes of a cat. Several times he put an arm under my elbow and saved me from tripping on a tree root in the dark. 

He appeared to know the way quite well. There was no hesitation, no glancing around. He just steered me along quickly through the most secluded route from my back door to his motorcycle, which was parked a few blocks away. 

I had wondered what his motorcycle would look like. If it would look like Steve’s. Steve had never let me ride on his with him, but I’d seen it frequently because he’d always parked it right in front of my house when he came over. He’d been much more straightforward than Bucky. Less surreptitious. But then again, they’d had very different lives.

I knew almost nothing about motorcycles, but still admired the lines of Bucky’s. It was black and sleek and looked like it was designed to go very fast. 

There was a helmet sitting on the seat. Bucky grabbed it and held it out to me. 

“Where’s your helmet?” I asked, taking it from him.

“I don’t wear one.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

He chuckled. “If nothing’s killed me yet, I’ll take my chances.”

I looked down at the helmet. I’d worn one the last time I’d been on a motorcycle, but this one was much more elaborate. It went all the way around my chin and had a visor in front.

“I got you one like this so it’ll protect you better and hide your face,” he explained. “Try it on.”

I pulled the helmet down over my head and looked out at him through the visor. 

“How does that feel, is it okay?” he asked. I nodded.

“Good. We won’t be able to talk when we’re riding, so if you need anything, anything at all, just tap me on the shoulder or touch my arm.”

“But is that going to mess you up while you’re driving?” My voice was muffled, coming through the helmet.

He smiled at some secret joke. “It takes more than that to throw me off.”

He tossed a long leg over the bike and sat on the front seat, turning to face me. 

“You’ve ridden one of these before, right?”

I nodded.

“Do you remember how to get on?”

I gave him what I intended to be a scornful look, but the bite of it was probably lost behind the visor. Planting one foot on the peg I tried to copy his graceful movement as I lifted the other leg over the seat. It wasn’t one of those super cushy seats with a back rest or anything, but it had enough give to be comfortable for a ride. 

I scooted myself forward until I was pressed up against his back and tried not to bang him in the head with my chin guard.

“Ready?” he asked over his shoulder. I gave him a thumbs up and he smiled. “Okay, then. Let’s go.”

I put my hands loosely on his hips. I knew from previous rides that it wasn’t a good idea to have a death grip around the driver, and to always stay away from their arms and shoulders. 

As we wound our way out of my neighborhood, he seemed to be going especially slowly and carefully, taking each turn with a lazy, gentle grace. I couldn’t imagine that he traveled like this when he was alone. 

We hadn’t discussed the route previously, but he seemed to be heading away from the congested center of DC, towards the open roads. I was glad. I couldn’t feel the wind on my face through the helmet, but I wanted to feel the speed, the power of this man and his machine. 

I had always liked motorcycles. Ever since an old boyfriend had invited me out to test drive one with him. I’d liked it better than he had. There was something exciting about the speed. It wasn’t like driving in a car, where you traveled in a bubble that insulated you from the environment and the elements. Riding a motorcycle was raw. You were connected to the road. You felt everything around you. 

Between his strength and his reflexes, I had guessed Bucky would be a masterful rider, and I was not wrong. He handled the motorcycle as though it were a part of him. He wasn’t trying anything tricky, but his skill was apparent even just watching him simply turn or change lanes. He handled the big machine effortlessly, barely shifting in the seat. 

As he got further from traffic, he seemed to become more comfortable having me there and accelerated. He moved so fluidly, there was something almost sensual about it. I liked the gentle vibration of the seat. The warmth of him between my legs.

We reached the highway and he really let her go. It was exhilarating, speeding down the road on this perfect machine with Bucky’s strong body to hold on to. I probably should have been scared, but I wasn’t. Probably should have been cold too, but between the helmet and his warmth in front of me, I didn’t feel the bite in the air. Just the speed and the excitement.

As physically satisfying as all of this was, the most significant part was that Bucky had felt safe taking me at all. When I’d asked him for the ride it had been spur of the moment. Had I thought it through, I probably wouldn’t have put him on the spot, thinking he’d never agree to it. He’d been so reluctant to do anything that might risk people seeing us together. But here we were. 

Maybe dinner at a restaurant wasn’t so farfetched after all. 

**********

Bucky could drive a car just fine. Better than fine, actually. He could drive or fly damn near anything. But he liked the simplicity of motorcycles. The flexibility of them. 

He had initially been reluctant to take Margaret for a ride. He was reluctant about anything that might jeopardize her safety, especially if it was unnecessary. But his need to protect her was countered by a desire to make her happy. Do what she wanted. And the request was so small, he’d wanted to grant it. 

He justified it to himself that if they ever needed to use the motorcycle to escape, this would help her learn how to ride behind him safely. 

And there was the fact he’d be pressed up against her for however long she wanted to go. 

In some ways, having Margaret behind him felt very strange. He’d never ridden on a motorcycle with anyone else. At least, not voluntarily. There was a gentle, reassuring tug at his waist to remind him that she was still there, although it was so slight he worried a little about her falling off. 

He’d been prepared for her to cause weight shifts as he turned, or lean forward against him when he slowed, but she did neither. She just leaned along with him, following his motion at the turns. She caused him no difficulty. That was a good sign in case they ever had to flee this way. 

But that was it. Besides the slight tug, and the warmth against his backside, it was like having no one there at all. This surprised him. She’d struck him as more of an… indoor girl. But then again, there was the baseball as a kid. The way she hadn’t been afraid of him, even with his knife at her throat. She was tougher than he’d initially thought, in spite of her naïveté regarding her own safety. 

She was so soft when it came to people. He smiled, thinking about her worrying at his lack of a helmet. He loved the way she worried about him. From that first night when she’d brought him a sleeping bag in the kitchen. Made him a cap. Sent him home with food. 

He thought about how she worried he might be bored. That he might think his time with her was boring. Boring, never. But blessedly normal. When his whole life was insanity, normalcy was a rare commodity and one he prized highly. Especially because he got to share that part with her.

And it wasn’t just the normalcy. He was addicted to the way she saw him. The version of himself he saw reflected in her eyes. The good man, the man he had been once. The man he might have become. The life he might have had. All of that was there when she looked at him. He didn’t want to let that go. He didn’t want to do anything that might change the way she saw him. 

SCCCRRREEEEECCCHHHH.

The car swerved in front of them with no warning. Another man without his preternaturally fast reflexes wouldn’t have been able to avoid it. Bucky didn’t have a chance to warn her in any way before his sudden deceleration. 

He braced for her weight to slam into his back. He wasn’t worried about losing control of the motorcycle, he was strong enough to keep it on track even with a dramatic shift in weight. Still, he didn’t want to scare her or take a chance she would get hurt. 

But she didn’t slam up against him. Instead, she reflexively tightened her knees around his hips and her hands around his waist. Rather than throwing him off balance, she stabilized him. It was impressive coming from someone he hadn’t thought owned pants. 

Bucky grinned. She continued to surprise him.

As he got further away from the traffic of the city center, he opened up the throttle and showed her what the bike could do. The tires ate up miles of road beneath him and he felt a familiar rush. 

He loved the feeling of the wind on his face even more with her behind him. He had thought he would be distracted with her on the back of his bike. Be worried about her safety. But after the first few miles he realized it felt natural having her there. Like he finally had everything he needed. It made him wonder if he would feel as though something was missing the next time he rode alone. 

He kept accelerating, going faster and faster. He knew it would be safer to travel at a more sedate pace, but for some reason he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t slow down. Suddenly having to fight the urge to flee. To just run away with her. Escape his past, escape the danger, the fear. Outrun his nightmares. 

So, what was his plan, if he rode off with her and never came back? He supposed he could take her to Wakanda. She would be safe there. He suspected the life of a goat farmer would be much more interesting with her around. But he couldn’t ask her to give up her whole life here just for him. She’d already had it ripped away from her once. 

And even if she wanted to, he still didn’t feel he’d deserved the right to have that life. Not yet. 

Bucky had been going at a breakneck pace long enough to shed the last of the light traffic. Ahead of him lay open road. Escape. He noted the mile marker and was shocked to find how far they’d traveled. How quickly the ride had gone. 

He could just begin to detect the cold in his extremities. It didn’t affect his reflexes. His physiology protected him from inconveniences like that. But he thought she must be getting cold by now. The last thing he wanted to do was cause her any discomfort, much as he enjoyed having her with him. 

He looked up at the stars he could never see through the light pollution of the capitol. Thought about the view from his hut in Wakanda. Wondered if she would have liked the simple beauty of the night sky as much as he had. He reluctantly took the next exit and headed the bike back towards her place. 

The whole ride she’d never made a sound. She’d just sat behind him, warm against his lower back, fluidly following his movements as though they were connected. He wondered what she was thinking. Whether he’d scared her into silence, or she’d enjoyed the ride as much as he had. 

He guessed he’d find out when they got back. 

**********

Bucky pulled the motorcycle to a stop in a different place than he’d parked it before. Still a block or so away from my house. I pulled off the helmet and handed it to him, hoping my hair wasn’t quite as mad looking as I suspected it might be. 

“So, what did you think?” he asked. He seemed genuinely curious. 

“I liked it. Thanks for taking me.”

I was reluctant for the ride to end but guessed he wouldn’t want to spend a lot of time hanging around in the street. Once he’d put the kickstand down, I lifted my leg off the seat as carefully as possible so as not to upset the bike. Without his warm body against me, I could feel the cold. 

“I didn’t scare you?” 

“I like to go fast.” He laughed and shook his head. 

“And I feel safe with you,” I added. He stopped laughing and looked at me. 

“For a minute there, I thought you weren’t going to bring me back,” I joked, to fill the silence. 

“For a minute there, I wasn’t.”

The look on his face made it impossible to tell if he was kidding. 

“C’mon,” he said, taking my gloved hand in his.

Bucky moved with the same confidence through the dark backyards on the way back to the house. He maintained an alertness that reminded me of nature videos of animals hunting. He didn’t look around, didn’t hurry. Just seemed unnaturally aware of his surroundings.

I did my best to follow suit, stepping quickly and silently through the dark lawns. I wanted to show him I could avoid being a burden. That I could help him stay safe. I wondered how much of his life he’d had to spend sneaking around in the shadows, knowing that in almost every case the most dangerous thing lurking there had probably been him. 

**********

“Do you want to come in for a drink?”

He only hesitated because he knew it would be an early morning. Very early. But there were much worse reasons to lose sleep. 

“Sure.”

He stepped through the doorway and was instantly enveloped in warmth. Regardless of what temperature he kept his thermostat set to, her house was always a magnitude warmer than his. There was a coziness to her house that his sterile apartment would never be able to replicate. It wasn’t the main draw of coming here, but it was something he noticed and appreciated. 

“What can I get you?” she asked, hanging up his coat. 

“Something warm,” he replied. She smiled and headed towards the kitchen. 

“I’ll be right back.”

Bucky had been in this living room a number of times. But when she was in the room, it was difficult to pay much attention to anything else. Now that he was alone, he took the time to study the photos on her wall. 

Pictures of her with her family. With a brother and sister as young children playing in the snow. A little older, sitting in front of a fireplace. The whole family in front of a brightly lit tree. 

Pictures with her friends. Younger, maybe college age, in front of the Eiffel Tower. Young adults in paper crowns on New Year’s Eve. In bathing suits and sunglasses at the beach. Roasting marshmallows over a bonfire. Holding a beer at a baseball game. 

He wondered how many of her friends had survived the Snap. Whether they’d been able to adjust after they got back. 

“Here you go,” she said, backing through the kitchen door with a steaming mug in each hand. She handed one to him. 

“Thanks.” 

He looked down at the mug and smiled at the picture of a cartoon carton of milk holding hands with a cookie. 

“Unless you’d prefer Rudolph?” she asked, proffering her own cup. 

“No, this is fine.” 

Margaret took a seat the couch and motioned for him to do the same. 

He sat close enough for their knees to touch and lifted the mug to his lips, taking a slow sip and feeling the warmth flow down into his gut. The drink was familiar, but with something he couldn’t identify. 

“This is good. What is it?” he asked. 

“Coffee with Bailey’s Irish Cream.” 

“I’ve never heard of that.”

“I don’t think it existed until the 70s. You’re lucky you missed the 70s. A lot of bad hair, bad clothes, and bad music.” She took a sip of her drink. Left a little foam on her lip. Licked it off. “Do you remember the 70s?”

“Not really. Not in any meaningful way.” He shifted in his seat, concentrating on her face, and trying to stop any rogue memories from surfacing. “And the things that I do remember wouldn’t be a good topic for conversation.”

“I’m never going to ask about that stuff,” she said. “But you can talk to me if you want. You don’t have to give me some sanitized version of yourself.” 

“It’s not just for you,” he said quietly. “I don’t really want to think about any of that. Not while I’m here.”

She didn’t say anything, just took another sip of coffee. He wasn’t sure how to interpret her silence. 

“It’s not that I don’t want to share things with you,” he explained, clutching the mug with both hands. “There are large parts of my life that I wish had never happened. I can’t go back and undo any of it, and I can’t forget it happened. But it’s not what I want to think about when I’m here with you. I would rather work on making new memories. Better memories.”

“Oh. Okay.” She seemed reassured. “Speaking of that…” she began, blushing charmingly. “I think I figured out a way to make it safe.”

His mind was a blank. “Make it safe?”

If possible, she blushed even pinker. 

“What we were talking about last time.”

It clicked. 

A torrent of sensations conjured up by her remark flooded his mind. Her smell. Her taste. The way the skin of her thighs felt against his mouth. Her red lips kissing him, licking him, closing around him. Every fantasy he’d created during the long, dark nights he spent away from her. 

His pulse kicked up. He felt the adrenaline, the excitement, flooding his veins. 

He set his mug down on the end table. Shoot, he’d gone without sleep for more than one night. There was no way he was missing this. 

“But I’m not ready yet,” she added apologetically.

He made a Herculean effort not to let the disappointment show on his face. Choosing instead to smile in anticipation. He knew what he’d be thinking about during his early morning flight.

“Take your time. I can wait.”

Bucky was a very patient man. It had taken him 80 years to find her. 

And some things were worth waiting for.


	16. A Way To Make It Safe (Adult Content)

THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS ADULT CONTENT. ENJOY!

********************** 

Bucky stood on her doorstep and looked down at the grocery store flower bouquet in his hand. What the hell was he playing at? He’d grabbed them on impulse but now just felt foolish. He thought about pitching them into the bushes. 

The door opened. Too late now. 

“Hi,” she said, holding the door open for him. That smile. He loved her smile.

“Hi.” 

He stepped into the house and was vaguely amused to notice his pulse had kicked up. He’d been in life or death situations without his heart rate ever changing a beat. But he was genuinely excited about this evening. 

When he’d texted her a few days ago to ask about dinner tonight, she’d replied in the affirmative, along with five words that had made his breath quicken in anticipation. 

“Let’s give this a try.” 

Just thinking about it had damn near made him lose his way on the ride over, which was unprecedented. 

“Are those for me?” she asked, looking down at the flowers in his hand. 

“Yeah.” 

If he had planned to bring flowers, it probably would have made more sense to do it the first time he’d come for dinner. He felt like he was doing a lot of this backwards. Having to learn how to be in a relationship. And all of his experience was 80 years out of date. He had no idea what constituted a normal courtship in the current day. Fortunately, Margaret was very understanding.

She looked lovely in the soft light of her table lamps. The bracelet he’d given her sparkled on her wrist. She wore a blue dress he hadn’t seen before. It matched the bracelet so well he wondered if she’d bought it for that specific purpose. 

It was different than her other dresses which all had full skirts. This one hugged her silhouette from her rounded backside all the way down to her shapely calves. It looked soft, like velvet. He wanted to run his hands over it. He stuck the metal one down into his pocket and thrust the flowers towards her with the other one. 

“Thank you, they’re lovely,” she said, taking them from him. “Why don’t I go and put them in water?”

She turned towards the kitchen and he discretely admired her retreating figure for a moment before removing his jacket and hanging it in the closet. He loved that he felt comfortable performing this little intimacy himself. Like in a way, it had become his house too. 

He’d worn the green shirt again. He didn’t really have anywhere else to wear it. But it looked a lot better this time, he’d remembered he needed to iron it. Buying the iron was a good idea, even if he didn’t use it very often. It was a nice, heavy blunt metal object to have around. He kept it on a table by the front door. 

“This was so thoughtful, thank you,” she said, coming back into the room. 

She’d put the flowers into a fancy vase, which she set on the table. He noticed she’d cut the stems and arranged them so that they looked much nicer than they had in the bundle in his fist. She made everything nicer.

“Dinner’s almost ready. Want to keep me company?”

“Yes. I like your dress,” he remembered to add. “You look good in blue.”

She glanced over her shoulder as she passed through the door into the kitchen. “Thank you. So do you. It matches your eyes.”

“But the green matches yours,” he replied and was rewarded by another of her smiles. 

The kitchen was warm and aromatic with the scent of vaguely exotic spices. 

“What are you making? It smells good.”

“Chicken shawarma. It was the only thing Steve ever specifically requested that I make. He seemed to like it, I thought you might too.” 

Hearing Steve’s name gave Bucky a start. He almost never thought of Steve anymore when he came here. He had in the beginning. Steve had been the reason he’d found Margaret in the first place. And maybe, the fact that he’d associated her with Steve had been some of the draw initially. But now he just came to see her.

The comment about Steve had caused a small twinge of envy. He suddenly wondered how many times she and Steve had shared the same meals. Watched the same movies. Whether they sat in the same places on the couch. Whether Steve had made her laugh. It wasn’t really jealousy, more the sadness of knowing that Steve would have been a better match for her. Would have been more likely to give her the life she wanted. 

Bucky sometimes felt like a poor substitute. She never did anything to make him feel that way, but he knew the rosy picture she had of him wasn’t entirely accurate. He just couldn’t seem to get her to believe that. And in truth, he didn’t want to. 

“I wanted to thank you for the motorcycle ride,” she remarked, pulling a pan out of the oven. She set it down with a clatter, as though it had slipped from her hand. 

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” 

“If you ever want a ride in a Beetle, I’m your gal.”

“I’m not sure I’d fit in there. And I’ve had bad experience with Volkswagens.”

He leaned back against the counter and watched her as she moved the chicken from the pan onto a cutting board. Watched her body move beneath her dress. He wondered what she wore under it. Wondered if he’d get to find out. He thought about what the skin of her bare thigh had felt like. Wondered what that soft skin would feel like all along his body. 

As if she could hear his thoughts, she fumbled and one of the pieces of chicken dropped onto the counter. Bucky studied her. She seemed flustered. Like the excitement at Christmas but with an undercurrent of anxiousness. He didn’t dare hope it might be because she was as eager as he was. 

“Well, let me know if you ever change your mind. I adore that car. I’m glad they started making them again. Although I’d love to have one of the old ones,” she mused, looking around for something. “But then I’d have to learn to drive a manual transmission.”

“You don’t know how to drive stick?”

“No, I never learned. Never had to.”

The idea of that seemed so strange to Bucky. And for the first time he kind of wished he had a car, just so he could teach her. 

Her eyes lit on the knife on the opposite counter and she reached for it but didn’t get a good grip. It slipped out of her hand and he caught it just before it landed point down in her linoleum floor.

“Why don’t you let me do that?” he asked, motioning towards the chicken. She gave him an adorably embarrassed smile and stepped aside.

“I’ll just get the hummus. And try not to drop it.” 

He smiled, his knife making quick work of the chicken. The knife could use some sharpening. He should take care of that for her. 

“I could teach you how to fly a plane,” he offered. 

“Why, do you have one of those?” she teased. 

“On occasion.”

“You know, I wanted to be a fighter pilot.”

Bucky glanced over at her, surprised. 

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“The military didn’t want me,” she replied. She had a wry smile, but he thought there might be something behind it. 

“I find it difficult to believe that anyone didn’t want you,” he said. The minute the words were out of his mouth he thought they might have been too much. But they were true. 

“They had good reason,” she replied. “I have asthma and tachycardia.”

Jesus, she sounded like Steve. And both of them wanted to risk their lives anyway. 

Bucky wondered what she would think if he ever told her the truth. The truth that not even Steve had known. That he’d never wanted to be a soldier. Never wanted to fight. Never wanted to leave Steve to get beaten to a pulp in a back alley because some bully made a stupid remark. Never wanted to die in a field somewhere in Europe because a madman wanted power. And yet he’d ended up in the service of madmen for decades. 

He didn’t think of it often, anymore. He’d always told himself he would have enlisted soon. But he knew in his heart that was a convenient lie. Just like others he occasionally told himself. Like how he never would have been capable of hurting those people if he hadn’t been made, been forced to do it.

He shook his head to clear the thoughts away. Looked at her. Tried to keep his mind in the here and now. But her words came back to him. Along with the harsh rasp of Steve’s shallow breathing as he’d strained to round the stickball bases. Asthma and tachycardia. That probably made it hard for her to run. Well, if it ever came to it, he’d just pick her up and carry her. Maybe they should practice that too. 

Another thought occurred to him. 

“Do you take medicine for those?”

“No. Neither one is particularly severe, but they were enough to disqualify me from active duty. Why do you ask?”

Bucky didn’t want to scare her by admitting he wanted to know if there were medications she might need if something happened to her or if they needed to hide out somewhere. 

“Just curious.”

**********

“So, what would you like to do?” I asked, after we’d cleared the dinner dishes. 

He gave me a look that could have melted butter.

“Right. Well, I thought of something we could try. If you want.”

“I want.”

I laughed. 

“Okay. Let’s, um, go into the other room.” 

I led him out the kitchen door and into the bedroom, wishing I knew some sexier way to get him there. I stopped in front of my bed and turned to face him. 

“I know you’re worried about hurting me. I thought maybe you could just sit back, and let me, um…” I swallowed.

“Yes?” He raised an eyebrow. 

“Take care of things.”

He eyed up the bed behind me where I had propped pillows against the headboard for him to lean on. 

“What are those for?” he asked, motioning towards two long scarves I had tied to the bedposts.

“I’ll show you. But first, let me put some music on.”

I selected a jazz playlist on my iPod. The opening notes of Duke Ellington’s “My Little Brown Book” helped set the mood I was trying to create much better than anything I was doing. 

Okay. Take a breath. 

I looked at him, standing there in my bedroom. It was definitely less weird than it had been the first night. But in all the times I’d pictured this scenario, I hadn’t worked through the logistics of how it would all happen. 

First things first. 

“This might be easier if we, I mean if you, um, take off some of your clothes,” I suggested.

He looked down at me with a combination of interest and amusement. 

“Can you be more specific?”

“Sure. Would you take off your shirt?”

He reached down and began undoing his top button. It all felt too clinical, like I was a nurse asking him to undress. I stepped towards him and put my hands on his chest. It was warm, even through his shirt. I wondered if his body ran at a higher temperature, like Steve’s.

He paused, his hands on the next button down.

“Can I do it?” I asked, looking up at him. 

He was close enough for me to feel his breath. Something about being that close to Bucky always made me feel protected. Cherished. Safe. 

“Yes,” he said, dropping his hands to his sides.

I’d been in a state of nervous excitement since he’d arrived, and the way he was looking down at me made it hard for my fingers to perform even the relatively simple task of unbuttoning his shirt. I’d gotten about halfway through when he reached down and simply pulled the two sides apart. I heard one of the torn buttons go skittering somewhere in the vicinity of my dresser. 

I couldn’t help it. I started giggling.

“And I thought I was keen,” I teased. 

He shrugged and pulled the shirt off his shoulders. I kissed his chest since that’s what was at my eye level. It was smooth against my lips. 

“Anything else?” he asked, his voice sounding a little hoarse.

“Pants,” I replied. It came out like a whisper. 

I saw him breathe in and out. He lowered his hands to remove his belt. I gently moved them aside.

“Let me, please?” I said, looking up at him. Bucky nodded. 

He watched my hands pull the strap out of the buckle then slide the leather through the loops. I dropped it on the floor and undid the button and zipper as quickly as my shaky hands would allow. 

His breaths came quick and shallow, which seemed ridiculous. I’d bet he could do ten miles at a dead run. But he sounded out of breath just standing there in my bedroom. 

Or like someone having a panic attack.

I looked up at him, concerned. There was no panic. Just intensity. 

Bucky was hard to read because his body language didn’t always match what he felt. With any other guy who wanted to touch me, he would have just gone ahead and done it. But Bucky was always so careful about initiating contact, not because he didn’t want to, but because he was understandably afraid he would hurt me. 

His hands were still at his sides. His real one clenched. I took it in mine, gently opened the curled fingers, and kissed the palm. 

He made a low noise in the back of his throat. 

After everything he’d been through, it would have made sense if he didn’t want to be touched. But apparently that was another part of him that even Hydra torture couldn’t destroy. 

I released his hand and eased his waistband down his slender hips, taking care to keep everything clear of the noticeable bump in the front, and the pants dropped to the floor. He wore dark blue briefs. I smiled as I realized how curious I’d been about that. 

He stepped out of the pants with one foot, then the other. 

“Can you sit down on the bed?” I asked. 

He sat. I stepped between his thighs and put my hands on his shoulders. His skin was so warm. I suddenly had the urge to forget the whole silly plan, just lay back on the bed, pull him down on top of me and let whatever happened happen. I knew he was strong. I knew the power he kept under all those layers of control. I wanted to feel that strength. 

But more importantly, I wanted to make him feel comfortable and safe. That was the priority right now. 

“Could you back up?” I asked.

He obligingly moved so that his back was against the pillows I’d propped up along the headboard for him. He reached out and took a scarf in his hand.

“Okay, what is it you want me to do with this?”

“I thought maybe I could put those around your wrists, one on each side. Not to tie you up exactly, just as a sort of reminder to keep your hands clear.” 

His eyebrows furrowed and I once again reconsidered the plan. 

“It’s just that you were worried about hurting me, and I thought this would help… I’m sorry, this is silly.”

“No, no, it’s a good idea,” he insisted. “I’m happy to do whatever you think might work. I’m happy to try it.”

He seemed genuine. 

I went to each bedpost and looped the scarves around his outstretched wrists a few times, tying them off at the ends. He tugged on them experimentally and gave me a dubious look.

“Well, I can’t tie you up too tightly, I just… after everything you’ve… after everything that’s happened, I don’t think I could do that.”

**********

Bucky didn’t have the heart to tell her there was probably no way she could secure him in a way that he would actually be restrained. Whole governments had tried that, unsuccessfully. 

But wild horses couldn’t drag him away from whatever was about to happen in this bedroom. He was perfectly happy to be tied up in whatever way made her feel helpful. 

“All right, I’m secured. No way I’m getting out of these.” 

He tried to keep a straight face because she seemed so earnest about this little experiment. It wasn’t a bad idea, the scarves. Not that he thought they could do much to restrain him, but it might be just enough to help him maintain control. 

In general, Bucky maintained exquisite control over his body, knowing the damage it was capable of exacting. But once he touched her, once her lips were on his, his control seemed to evaporate. It had been all he could do to keep his hands at his sides while she’d undressed him. Just the sight of her, looking down and watching her unzip his pants, had brought him close. Too close. 

Great. Now he had two problems. Keeping himself from inflicting any damage and holding out long enough to enjoy everything that was about to happen. 

At least, he hoped was about to happen. 

**********

Once I’d gotten the scarves secured, I took a step back towards the dresser, inspecting my handiwork. 

Holy God.

The way he looked sitting on my bed. Thick arms outstretched; lamplight soft on his smooth chest, casting shadows down over the ridges in his gut; long, muscular legs; and a very promising bulge in his briefs. Even the daydreams I’d conjured up about this moment had fallen leagues short of the real thing. If it wouldn’t have been weird and completely inappropriate, I would have taken a picture. 

“What’s next?” he asked, looking game. I had to give him points for being such a good sport. 

“Um, okay. Now you can tell me what to do.”

Bucky frowned, looking uncertain. 

I didn’t want to issue any more orders, even if he felt fully capable of refusing them. God knows he’d had enough of that. And tonight was supposed to be all about him. I got the impression there hadn’t been a lot of things in Bucky’s life that were all about him. Especially now that Steve was gone. I wanted to make this about what he wanted. 

“I don’t think…” he began, hesitantly. 

“Okay, how about I tell you what I’d like to do, and you tell me if that’s okay.”

He considered this. 

“All right.”

“Do you want me to turn off the light?” I asked.

“Only if you want to,” he replied. “But I’d rather have it on. I want to be able to see you. To look at you.” He smiled. I got lost in it. 

Focus. 

“Would you like me to take off my clothes?”

“YES.” 

I smiled at his enthusiasm. 

“Is there any special way you’d like me to do it?” I strained to remember any of the techniques I’d learned in that burlesque class I’d taken for fun a few years ago. 

“Could you do some more,” he paused searching for the word. “Karaoke?”

So, he wanted an actual cabaret act.

“Um, okay,” I said carefully. “Is there a specific song you want?”

There had been a number of sexy songs on the iPod I’d given him, since they were so popular in so many different genres and times.

“Could you sing that song, from your favorites list?”

My mind flashed through the list, trying to guess which song he might want. Son of a Preacher Man? In These Shoes?

“The last one,” he said.

Ah. Turn Me On. Well, at least I knew the words. 

I tried to swallow my nerves. It was important he not mistake any self-consciousness for reluctance. 

“Okay.” 

I went to the iPod and clicked through my karaoke playlist, trying to calm my heart. It felt like it was trying to beat right out of my chest. I knew I had an okay voice for neighborhood karaoke, but I wanted tonight to be whatever his fantasy was. I hoped my awkwardness didn’t ruin the mood I was trying to create. 

The opening piano chords sounded and I took a deep breath, not quite ready to turn and face him yet. 

“Like a flower waiting to bloom,” I began softly. “Like a lightbulb, in a dark room…” 

He wasn’t laughing. Wasn’t making any noise. Not even that raspy breathing. 

“I’m just sittin’ here, waiting for you to come on home and turn me on.”

It took the whole first verse for me to remember I was supposed to be taking off my clothes.

I reached my arm around behind me and tugged at the zipper tab, slowly drawing it down the back of my dress. The slow part was half because I’d remembered that tip from burlesque class, and half because my fingers couldn’t seem to do anything quickly this evening. 

“Like the desert, waiting for the rain, like a school kid, waiting for the spring…”

Still no sound from him. 

I slid the sleeves down over my shoulders, first one and then the other, concentrating on the way the soft fabric felt against my skin. Pretending my hands were his, running down my arm. It made me shiver. 

“I’m just sitting here waiting for you to come on home…”

I hooked my thumbs inside the waist of the dress and eased it slowly down over my hips, which were a sight more rounded than his. Keeping my knees straight, I leaned forward to slide it down my legs until it reached the floor. 

“… and turn me on.”

I stood back up and turned to face him. The image of his body on the bed was just as striking as before, but I couldn’t look away from his face. The intensity of his eyes on me. I almost forgot the words to the song.

“My poor heart, it’s been so dark…” I heard myself sing.

Confidence. That was the secret, the burlesque instructor had said. It didn’t matter what you looked like, what your body looked like, how smooth you were. If you were confident about what you were doing, that’s what made for good striptease. 

I slid a finger under the slender strap of my black satin slip and eased it down my shoulder. 

“… since you’ve been gone.”

Slid the other strap down. 

“After all, you’re the one who turns me off.”

The way he was looking at me, I could almost feel his hands on me. My body grew warm everywhere his gaze lingered. I smoothed my hands up over my hips, my stomach, my breasts, touching myself the way I wanted him to touch me.

He shifted on the bed, straightening up against the pillows, and his right arm flexed. His hand tugged gently on the scarf, like he was testing it. I smiled, knowing I had him. Knowing that for all the power he kept under leash, I was the one in control now. 

“You’re the only one who can turn me back on…”

I eased the silky garment down over my hips and felt it slide down my legs and pool at my feet. 

“My hi-fi is waiting, for a new tune…”

I placed a foot on the ottoman at the end of the bed, reached down, and ran my hands up my leg, starting at my black high heeled shoe and smoothing my fingers along until I reached the top of my stocking. 

“My glass is waiting for some fresh ice cubes…”

I slid the heel off the back of my foot and dropped it to the floor. Then I switched feet and repeated the process, removing the other shoe the same way.

“I’m just sitting here, waiting for you to come on home and turn me on. Turn me on.”

The song ended, the music faded away. 

I stood there, knowing exactly what I looked like wearing only my underwear and stockings. I usually felt okay about my appearance, but it was hard not to be self-conscious in the face of Bucky’s muscular perfection. My legs were too short. My tummy wasn’t flat. My hair had been acting weird all afternoon. My eyeliner was uneven.

But he didn’t look like he saw any of those things. He looked like he wanted to eat me alive. 

“How was that?” I asked, trying to break the silence. Break the spell.

“Ahem,” he cleared his throat. “Even better than I imagined.”

“Do you mind if I put the real music back on so I can devote my full attention to you?”

He grinned. 

“Sure.” I moved to the iPod and put the old jazz list back on. “But next time you update my iPod, can I have a recording of you singing that song?” 

I laughed, not sure if he was serious. 

“If I do that for you, what are you going to do for me?”

“I can’t do anything, I’m all tied up,” he replied, tugging gently on the scarves.

I smiled. “Then I’ll have to take care of things myself. Do you want me to keep going?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

I took a deep breath and let the gentle melody of Coleman Hawkins’ “Lost in a Fog” give me a little extra sauciness. 

Stockings next. 

I lifted my leg and perched a foot between his thighs on the bed. Taking my time, I unclipped each garter strap and slowly rolled the stocking down my leg. Before starting the other side, I paused to look at him, wanting to make sure he was enjoying himself. 

“Is this okay?”

“You’re killing me.”

“Tell me to stop.”

“Don’t stop.”

I smiled and repeated the motion with the other stocking. 

I slid the girdle down my legs, leaving just my bra and panties. They were my nicest bra and panties. Black satin and lace. If black was Bucky’s signature color, I was happy to be part of the team. 

I reached down to undo the clasp of the sapphire bracelet, not wanting to take a chance on scratching him or getting it snagged on something. 

“Leave it on,” he said softly. 

“All right. What’s next?”

“I thought you were supposed to tell me what you’d like to do.”

I looked down at him and noticed he was still wearing his socks. 

“I’d like to take your socks off.” 

He nodded. I climbed up on the bed, sitting back on my heels between his legs, and rolled one sock down his ankle until I got to his heel, where I noticed there was a hole. I pulled the sock off and stuck my finger through the opening in the heel. 

“I’d like to fix this hole in your sock.”

“Not now.”

I laughed at his tone.

“Okay, but don’t let me forget. A blister isn’t very tactical.”

I rolled the other sock down and was relieved to find it hole-free.

“I’d like to touch your feet.”

He gave me a quizzical look. “Okay.”

I rubbed my hands together to warm them, and placed them on his foot, slowly and firmly massaging the arch with my thumbs. 

He’d been watching me, curious, but when I started the massage his head fell back, and he blew out a long, slow breath. 

I wanted to show him that for me, this was not just about seduction. It was not just about sex. It was about showing tenderness to a body that had known only torture and abuse for decades. It was about showing him that he deserved that kind of tenderness. 

After several minutes I moved to the other foot and rubbed until I felt the tendons smooth and relax. 

“I’d like to touch your calves, if that’s okay.”

He tipped his head forward and looked at me with a drowsy smile.

“Mmmm, hmmmm.” 

I gripped his leg at the ankle, firmly stroking both of my hands up to the top of his calf.

“Jesus,” he muttered, tipping his head back again. 

I smiled and continued the motions, waiting for the muscles to relax. They were so tight, so hard, it made me wonder if he was ever able to relax or if he kept everything tensed and primed to strike at any moment. How long had he been in a state of fight or flight? Years, probably.

I moved to the other leg and repeated the motion, enjoying the feeling of his firm muscle beneath my hands. 

“I’d like to touch your thighs. Is that okay?”

His head came forward and he looked at me. 

“Yeah.” His voice sounded thick. 

I moved up so that I was kneeling just below his groin, careful not to touch anything in that area. I made fists and ran the knuckles up the outside of his thigh, from the knee to the hip, taking special care to make my touch soothing rather than sexual. Even so, I couldn’t help but notice the bulge in his briefs had not decreased in size since I’d started.

He made a sound, like clearing his throat with his mouth closed, and I glanced up to see him watching me. Most of the time his eyes were so expressive it wasn’t hard to see what he was feeling. But right now, I couldn’t get a good read on him. I hoped he was enjoying what I was doing, but the closer I got to his last remaining article of clothing, the less relaxed he seemed. His head was no longer thrown back, and he wasn’t lounging against the pillows. He was sitting up almost straight, keeping the scarves taut in his hands.

“Is this okay?” I asked.

“Mmmm, hmmm.” His mouth was a tight line. 

I trusted him to tell me if something was wrong, so I continued kneading the thick muscles in his thighs, marveling at how I could actually feel them softening under my hands. I wasn’t a trained masseuse, but I’d picked up enough here and there to be able give a very amateur massage. 

“I’d like to take off your underwear. Is that okay?” 

He nodded, looking almost grim. 

“Are you sure?” 

He met my gaze and wet his lips.

“Yeah.”

I reached down and tucked a finger under each side of the elastic waistband, easing it down over his hips, extending it in front to make room for the unmistakable proof that at least part of him was really enjoying this. I drew the briefs slowly down the length of his legs, scooting back on the bed as I went, to the sultry strains of “Night Hawk.”

Looking up at his nude body stretched out before me to do with as I pleased made my insides tighten. His shaft jutted straight up out of a tuft of dark hair. It was strong, and smooth, and perfect, just like the rest of him. 

As enticing as the picture was, there was also something touching about it. He took such pains not to allow himself to be in a vulnerable position. And naked, tied to a bed seemed as vulnerable as a person could be. I was a bit awed that he allowed himself to be this unguarded with me. That he trusted me this way.

“Do you want me to take off my—”

“Yes,” he said huskily, not even waiting for me to finish. 

I laughed and reached behind my back, unclipping the three hooks it took to keep everything in place. He’d seen my chest before, so the fear that would have accompanied my revealing it was gone. I drew the straps down my shoulders and dropped the bra on the floor next to the bed.

Bucky looked at me with a sort of reverence. It made me feel strangely confident. Sexy, even. I moved forward so that I was once again kneeling between his thighs. I could see his chest moving, shallow breaths blowing in and out. I took a deep breath and glanced down at his erection.

“I’d like to lick you like an ice cream cone. Is that okay?”

I’d thought he might laugh at that. At least break a smile. But he didn’t. Instead, he took a steadying breath, looked me dead in the eyes, and looped each scarf one more time around his wrists to tighten them. 

“Yes.”

I gently wrapped my fingers around him. He inhaled sharply through his teeth.

He was hot and hard and thick in my hand. I wondered if Hydra’s experiments had had any effect on that part of his anatomy, or if he’d always been like that. I bent forward and, as lightly as I could manage, ran the tip of my tongue along his shaft from the base to the head in one slow, continuous lick. 

There was no sound from him, but his thigh tightened under my hand, the muscles reverting to their former tension. I repeated the motion along one side, enjoying the slightly salty taste in my mouth and musky smell in my nose. He didn’t make any move to stop me, so I continued licking base to tip along the back and sides of his length. 

Judging by the throbbing fullness in my hand, Bucky was unmistakably aroused. But I wanted, more than anything, to hear him make a sound, any sound, that indicated he was enjoying himself. Maybe if I tried something else. 

I shifted my attention to the head of his shaft, using the rough surface of my taste buds to massage it much like I had done with his feet. 

I did hear a sound then, but it wasn’t what I’d expected. More of a choked, strangled sound, like someone sputtering underwater. I spared a glance up at Bucky’s face and saw that his eyes were closed, his mouth a tight line, as though he were holding his breath. I thought maybe I had hurt him, although I’d done my best to be as gentle as I could. 

I stopped, sitting back on my heels.

“Are you all right?” I asked, concerned.

He opened his eyes, looking startled. 

“What? Ah…mmm hmm.”

“Was I hurting you?”

He shook his head no.

“Do you want me to keep going?”

“Yes.” His voice was a hoarse whisper.

I grinned and resumed my position at the head of his shaft. While I was enjoying the licking, the need to take him in my mouth was irresistible. So much so that I forgot to ask permission. I simply parted my lips and slid them down as far as I could, gliding him along the roof of my mouth.

Sweet Lord, the warmth and fullness of him. Thinking about having him buried deep inside of me made ME moan in response. 

There was still no sound from him, but I continued undaunted. I caressed him with my tongue and my lips closed around him, easing up and down in a slow rhythm. There was no need to rush things. I was happy for this to last as long as possible. I’d been waiting a long time. 

The heat pooling down inside of me was making it hard to keep still. Without taking him out of my mouth, I reached down and eased my panties over my bottom and wiggled them down my legs and off my feet. I brought one hand back up to cup his sack, and with the other I reached between my legs and touched myself, remembering how his tongue had felt in that place. I purred against his shaft, as my fingers stroked the places I wanted him to touch me. 

There was a wrenching sound, a metallic squeal and then sharp crack. I stopped and looked up to see Bucky, rather surprised, staring at his still bound vibranium hand clutching a piece that had snapped off my wrought iron headboard. 

I sat back on my heels and started laughing. 

“Wow. You actually broke the bed.”

“Oh God, sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I replied, taking the piece from his hand and dropping it on the floor. “I take it as a compliment.”

It wasn’t the reaction I’d expected, but at least I knew my ministrations were having an effect. Encouraged, I bent forward to take him back into my mouth. 

“Wait,” he said. I immediately sat back up and looked at him. “I can’t… any more of that and I can’t…”

“It’s all right,” I reassured him. 

Well, if he didn’t want any more of that, there were only a few possibilities left, including the obvious one.

“Now I need you to tell me what you want me to do,” I said gently. 

I looked down at his member, which was slick with my kisses and still ramrod straight.

“I mean, I have an idea,” I teased. “But I’d like to hear you say the words.”

He didn’t say anything, just looked at me, pleading. 

I edged towards him on my knees, putting my hands on his shoulders and straddling his lap. I perched over him, close enough to feel his heat between my legs. My chest was at his eye level and seemed to distract him for a moment. But then he looked up at me, almost helplessly. 

“Please,” was all he could manage.

I slowly eased myself down until I could feel him, firm and hot, pushing against my entrance.

“I want you inside of me, Bucky Barnes,” I whispered. “Nobody else, just you.”

**********

It was enough. Hearing those words come out of her lips, just inches away from his. The idea that she wanted him. That when even he had forgotten who he was, she seemed to know. 

And want him anyway. 

The instant he felt himself surrounded by her softness and warmth, he exploded. It was incredibly intense. Lightyears beyond what he experienced on his own. It might have been embarrassing if he’d been capable of higher level thought. But all he could feel was an intense sense of relief. Joy. Peace.

Bucky had not been a virgin. He knew he had not. And yet he could not remember having experienced the same feeling before. Just the shallow echoes of it he’d felt in the privacy of his own apartment, thinking about her, with only his hand to conjure the entirety of a woman. This woman. She was the only one he thought about. The only one he wanted. 

Once the waves had subsided and he felt back in control, he tugged gently on the scarves. Just enough to get his hands free, he didn’t want to rip them. He wrapped his arms around her, perfectly content to keep her on his lap for the foreseeable future. 

“Say it again,” he murmured into her hair.

She pulled back so she could see his face. 

“Say what?”

“My name.”

She laughed. He felt it everywhere, even inside of her. 

“Bucky Barnes,” she said softly. 

He loved to hear her say his name. 

For a long time, he hadn’t had a name. They hadn’t given him one. A weapon didn’t need a name. And then even once he’d remembered it belonged to him, he hadn’t been able to use it because it hadn’t been safe. But as he watched Margaret’s lovely lips form the words, caressingly, almost possessively, he felt something stir inside of him. A sense of belonging.

He put a hand behind her head and brought her mouth to his, kissing her deeply. He’d wanted to kiss her from the moment she’d unzipped her dress, but it had taken all he’d had in him just to keep still. 

Not that he hadn’t enjoyed himself. This was the most pleasure he could remember experiencing all at one time. Every fantasy he had created about her, and some that he’d lacked the imagination to conceive. He would most certainly be reliving this evening in his mind when he didn’t have her sweet, soft body to touch.

“It’s not that I’m in any hurry to move,” she said, pulling back just far enough to see his face. “But I should probably use the bathroom.” 

Her words stirred him out of his post-coital haze, and he realized that he was still inside of her. 

A thought occurred to him then, rather incredibly for the first time during the entire encounter. 

“What we just did, I mean, I didn’t use any-”

“It’s all right,” she interrupted gently. “I took care of it.” 

Bucky wasn’t sure whether it was impolite to ask how it worked now. She seemed to sense his curiosity and reluctance to ask about it.

“There’s a pill that women can take to prevent pregnancy.”

“Oh,” he said, relieved.

For a man who had been trained to consider every contingency he had been remarkably dense about this one. He hadn’t thought to research this particular subject, as he hadn’t been entirely sure he would ever be able to have an intimate relationship with a woman again. It didn’t really matter much, it certainly wasn’t a priority. But it was just another way she had saved him. Brought him back to life. 

She dropped a soft kiss on his lips and eased her body off of his, stepping lightly to the floor and walking naked out the doorway. He drank up the sight of her nude form, wanting to remember every detail for later. Now that he’d seen her naked, he wondered if he would ever be able to picture her any other way. 

He sat back against the pillows, looking over at the scarf still tied to the bedpost. He’d laughed at first, but it had done the job. That, and his own willpower. This had been a test. To see whether he could be with her and not hurt her. Now that he knew it was possible, his mind flooded with possibilities of other ways to help keep him under control. He couldn’t wait to explore them with her.  


Her music was still playing. Slow jazz from his time, or close to it. It reminded him of the music she’d played during the first meal they’d shared in her little house. Not the one where she’d invited him in. The one where he’d broken in and put his hand around her throat. And she’d still made him dinner.

He had no idea why he’d stayed. There hadn’t been a tactical reason for it. Strategically, it had been a mistake. It had been dangerous for him to stay in one place for too long. And yet, he’d done it anyway. 

Maybe it was the tone of her voice. The offer of hospitality. Even then, there had been something about her he’d found comforting. Safe.

After the motorcycle ride, she’d said she felt safe with him. Safe. With HIM. He realized he’d felt the same. Safe with her. There were precious few places he could claim to feel safe, even now. But being here with her was undoubtedly one of them. Safe enough to let his guard down. Let himself feel things, remember things. Recapture who he was. 

**********

He ran his fingers over my stomach. He’d requested I keep everything off, since he hadn’t gotten to touch me while his hands were tied up. I’d obliged with the exception of underwear, which I felt uncomfortable going without. 

“I love this. It’s like velvet.”

“It’s like a marshmallow peep,” I replied. 

“I don’t know what that is. But if you mean it’s soft, that’s why I like it.”

He lowered his head and kissed me, just next to the belly button. I speared a hand through his soft hair. A flush went through me, remembering his face when he’d finished inside of me. It had happened so quickly, at first I thought I’d hurt him. Maybe sat down wrong. But the expression on his face had been unmistakable, even if he hadn’t made any of the noises I usually associated with a man’s climax.

“Can I ask you about something?”

“Sure.” He seemed particularly agreeable, still intrigued by my soft belly.

“Before, when I was… licking you, were you trying to be quiet?”

He didn’t answer right away, and I thought maybe I’d made a mistake. Maybe this wasn’t something you were supposed to ask guys about.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “Sort of. I mean, most of the time I wasn’t in a place where I could make much noise, so I guess I just, got used to not… you know.”

I was relieved that he felt comfortable talking to me about it. 

“And nobody wants to hear that anyway,” he added, taking my hand in his and playing with my fingers. 

“Do you like it when I make sounds?”

I could almost hear him blushing.

“Yeah.”

“I feel the same way about you. That’s how I know you like what I’m doing.”

“I always like what you’re doing.”

I smiled. “Still, I’d love to hear you. Maybe we should try that again soon, you know, to give you some practice.”

He brought my hand to his lips and kissed it. 

“I’m always happy to learn something new.”

**********

Just when Bucky thought he’d experienced every flavor of nightmare, his brain invented a new one. In this dream, he and Margaret had managed to conceive a baby and upon holding it for the first time, he had crushed its tiny body with his bare hands. 

As horrifying as the image had been, and it was one that would stay with him for a long time, he wondered if it wasn’t actually an improvement over his previous dreams. It might mean that his brain was trying to consider the idea of a family. 

The nightmare hadn’t woken her this time, just him. He looked over at her, sleeping peacefully, her chest rising and falling with each slow breath. Just seeing her there made his tension and anxiety seep away. He thought about all the little ways she’d helped him, changed him, during their brief time together. Made him think of himself in a different way. Made him want to be better. Try to be better.

He knew he was coming to a crossroads. The more important she became to him, the more unbearable the thought of leaving her. But likewise, the more peril she was in. 

Bucky wasn’t a loner by nature. More by circumstance. In his other life he had liked to be around people. And he’d always had Steve. But then solitude had become safety, both for him and others. Anyone who got close was in danger. It was just easier to be alone. 

On his own, he’d managed to find some measure of peace. Calm. But there was little joy in it. She had given that to him. Made him smile, made him laugh. The things he did here were purely for fun. For the love of them. And if he was honest with himself, for the love of her. 

She had made it a life, rather than just an existence. 

But it would be selfish for him to rob her of a future with someone who could give her certainty. Safety. Children. If he really loved her, he should let her go. 

He thought about what she’d asked of him. 

“Promise me you won’t leave me for my own good.”

Always the competing desires to keep her safe, and to do what she wanted. 

Bucky had come to accept that he wasn’t supposed to have what he wanted. At least, not until he had earned it back. But by some miracle, he seemed to be what she wanted. For them to be together, even if it wasn’t safe. Even if it was reckless. He wondered if that made any difference to whoever balanced the scales. 

There were a lot of things he wanted to say to her, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. To tempt fate by saying them out loud. So instead, he whispered them in Portuguese. 

Maybe in Portuguese they wouldn’t count.


End file.
